parted lips, what will go in you?
Once you see it you just can’t stop. I search for them, gathering evidence, maniacal, a crackpot witness in the court of public opinion, but I’m telling the truth, promise, no matter how bug-eyed and incoherent I get. It’s all the rage, it’s been all the rage, how long has this rage gone on? Every magazine cover, every one, women pose their mouths like fish on display at Boston Public Market. A congested scene, hands all over, all over, bartering, explaining, shaking, done deal, done deal, bodies lined up in neat rows, lemons placed around them as they bathe in the ice boxes, spread out, what a meal they’ll be, the younger the better, the slicker the sweeter, stripped of all hooks and worms and mercury from the guys in the semi-trucks, hauling more out of styrofoam containers as the first batch is snatched up. Young or old, well, old pretending to be young, young painted up to be old but still oh so young, you know what I mean, lips slit only a little, maybe to put a pearl or playing card in there, something small enough to keep them occupied as the cameras flash, stage lights bake, muscles cramp one by one. How does it happen? Do they do it naturally? Opened just so because THAT’s why you’re a star, you got it kid, that je ne sais quo, that thing you can’t teach. Or does the photographer, every photographer, tell them to do it, no honey, no no no, no smiling, what is this, your senior portrait? give me HOT give me SEXY give me BEDROOM EYES yes like that like that, a little wider, a liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii no teeth no teeth, little wider, perfect, excellent, I’d fuck you, everybody wants to fuck you, right in your pearly gums. Can you say no? What happens? Sew it up like Coraline or tape it shut like a hostage crisis. What about tongue? Do they allow one? That infinite, gaping, frozen hole is a vacuum of sensuality. Sucking up all the eroticism, leaving no other definitions, no other configurations, no other positions to explore. A copy of a copy of a copy, on every newsstand, endless progeny for Madonna's whore. They haunt me, those gorgeous fish. I want to look at the clothes, the clothes and the scene, god do I love a spread, but my eyes go straight to the mouth, can’t look away, can’t find somewhere else to rest on this island of beauty. Who originated the look? Who got turned on by Woman resembling a corpse? When did the girls pick it up, take it, pass it to the next? Men are dead in the lens in a different way. Closed off, collars up, rugged, handsome, brows furrowed to say yes sir, here I am, a serious artist, mouth CLOSED mouth CLOSED, set the jaw, rigor mortis in bespoke Burberry. Never on display, never for sale, that’s what they want you to think, a subconscious aura, a dormant power, but it’s a lie, all a lie, everyone gets lined up when the market opens at seven sharp, weighed and measured, poked and prodded, caressed and skewered. They tell me it’s titillating, or they tell me it’s liberating, but all I see are fish, dead fish, two bucks cash only.
I need more of this actually