Eliot’s Objective

I wear beneath my skin

(underwear I think they call it) a callous patience that is waiting

to undermine your oppressive binary opposition

between the inside and the outside and


what has to be cohesive in art, the impersonal

in poetry I so resent because it is



bullshit. Can you tell — through the whiteness of my pale-ass

thighs, the indestructibility of my athlete’s

feet — the competition, hot coals at the surface — can you see

through my soles to the quick burn of the sun that makes me go pink —  


I’m not blushing. I’m talking about sunburn. I’m talking

about my pink and silky, flowery, fuck-me deliberate


underwear and my pubes that peek out defiantly

in binary opposition to the labour costs of aesthetic vulnerability.


Poetry? Or pussy? It’s all quite unconventional these days.


And I’m pondering an overwhelming question that you pose about

ladies and perfume and the validity of a messianic impulse

that comes too early, two-thirds in… to say:

umm, nope.


Can you tell (because it’s taken us a while to get here,

and I suspect that you’ve misread the situation),

can you tell what I’m talking about?


Oh digressions on digressions on digressions…


And again:

“That is not what I meant, at all.”

– Emma Thompson