Terminus Rotgut
I have the recording scratched bloody as a red record groove into my body, the totality of my body, a needle sending resonant, flowing memory through every vein, cut in rows, scratched, recorded and played, scratched recorded and played, the blood running in and through, drawn back by the writhing mass at my center, the organless weight of consumption, antithetical to being, antithetical to anything but driving the needle, driving the etching and scratching and playing, tasting whiskey and blood and piss and vomit in a kiddie pool of off-color sick-like salmon drool, driven by that corporealizing phantasm of my muffled grunts and his labored breathing, his piston machine desire flowing not through but into, driving like a nail laying track for an express destined to run indefinite, always in, deeper into the dynamite blown cavity of my cervix, over the precipice, into the train graveyard, the organless weighted writhing mass, crashing, compounding, a pear of agony wrought from tortured shrapnel…
Sylvie Oleta
Sylvie Oleta is a poet and fiddler residing in Charlottesville, Virginia. She once fell off a cliff while hunting for the wreckage of a B-25 Mitchell and is now forever grateful for conveniently placed trees.
