the immovable projectile vomit
the round soft chemical sore in the stomach
acid circles and spills over it
soft chemicals greased by stomach juices melt over different spots on the inner lining
the inner lining crumbles in disgust
shivers trembles heaves and gives way
a rumble heard of an explosion
bursting flames of liquid from a mixture of meals undigested
blended by a series of chemical reactions
molecules, leftover by-product formed
taste sour
taste like dust
chem trails
and
bitter powder
yellow pale and degraded in its image
old and rotten too soon before eaten
stomach gasps and from the sore spot
close up remains
to sit still
as their putrid look continues
to sit
until sick
until claim can be made to say
"i've thrown up the entire contents of my stomach can i go home now pleas?"
but if you can search for sour with texture
with a touch-to-touch rub up against look
sensing the presecence or absence of foul
determined to
throw up the enitre contents of your stomach
of your past
meals
of your empty sac
sitting
still until the sores remove all iriitants
by rubbing
the two corners of opposites siding slants of inside lining
lining made to feel foul play
lenthening and grasping for air
in an effort to
expell the foreign object

and is dis-com.fort for reign?
object projectile

is it laced with acid?
lined, in fact

the surface level, beckoning?
"come hither and i will destroy"
little tiny green and neon yellow people scream
"feed me!"
waiting to destroy
but not big enough to digest poison
who's poison will you be swallowing and with so many things to put in your mouth...
how can i remember who's who
or when
or from where
which object?
__________ projectile.
the air or the sea of the loom
the sac filled like a bag on a bag
inside each russian doll organs
another reason to ward against what object
you may or may not know
was ingested
by a mouth and a brain
one or both too open to explain
both shut off to anything but
that touch-to-touch sensor of
a perhaps mistaken identity
the one in which your gut and its neurons
try to tell you how it feels to perceive your self
and in their mutterings

and in their mutterrings

you lose all memory of being nothing
or ever having to feel sore at all

but the memory stays
of the stomach dispelling objects prohibited entry
ojects prohibited disguised
objects lost in birth
and objects mistaken for identity reign
like the who am i who am i who am i one in the two corners flapping against eahcother creating sore spots
trying to find their orientation in space time
anyway they can   fucking like children
where fucking is a metaphor for using a sense of touch to find
the inner lining couch history
of what you were in a history
but not in this vessel of experience
casually absent of any misleading energy
that could be real
and i could be real
and i could be real and i could be real
but the reall forgotten image is the one yellowed by negligence
and strung out on chemicals
left out too long in the kitchen
causing extreme abdominal discomfort
that you may not really be a part of
when how could you be anything more than the vessel, its walls only holding but not becoming anything at all
just point to the rubbing of two sides of innerlining and say
who am i where am i how did i get here

no response at all.

the divine line is me
i carry no space
hold marks of material undivided
i am a divide line
marking terror-story
divide light
one story true one story bad
divide in-fuse-ion
of what was never there at all
but the never-quite existing yet memory of what could have been already fashioned in texture marks of skin

that might just might just decide to throw its insides to the wall.
turning inside out
it projects you on the sides
and the removeable removes the  immovable
now moved and explelled can draw no reality
its lines now outside of formalities
its reality in the feel
of the walls inner lining sides
rubbing up against each other enough to
notice
how it feels to be dividing
and this recognition of an un-recognized extremity of being real is realized only as dream
when it awakens to the sense of existence
but through textures touches
of holding and carrying
but not being able to be carried itself
itself the imaginary space inbetween the lines outside and the lines from within
covering 
forming space at the points of lines met
divided in part to explain its existence
touching to remain divided while reminding your bodily vessel of its lack of existence
and therefore superimposing its image, the inverse of reality, on its stomach lining
like a movie one can only watch by touching
you lay yours hands over every part of the screen and eventually your hands will see
some
of the work we've been making
which is
most
ly
lost in the corners of time space as unreal
as the divinity of lines
and the spaces inbetween its selves
as the line is a body
who has a body
and is never really there at all
as imaginary as air
and its surroundings dependent on its existence
yet never needing to re-appear
as if what never was, remember? can exist as a pocketed image
as the pocketed image, yellowrotting chemicals, powders itself
on the walls of your inside lines
on the wall of your outside lines
and the spaces inbetween
that feel.


;
to vomit

(as so tenderly fleshed upheaved in removal)