U up? | Charles Byrne

4 mins read

Dirty light in the tiny hours. Rubbed myself off on a fire hydrant in the shadows. For
want of a more accessible protuberance. It was the old night terroirs had me up.
You’re lucid in my dream. The one: where I was you you me and you penetrated
myself. Are you serious. I would have had a double flat white before bed as a sleep
aid. When did you last self sooth and how frequent. I picture licking your limb
to trail spit across its hairs like limped beads of snail snot. What would constitute a
perfected life for you. Tell me what I love most about you. Fear, fear and limbic is
what have had me harbored safe. Blizzard brain. The bird brain is misnomered, a
teaspoon of cerebrum frothing over the brim. My darling dinosaur. One time fell
asleep on a wooden deck and when I woke up my nipples were sunburnt like berries
on bracts. The bulge of the little mouse beneath your skin as you levered your arm
up down up down up up down. For what in your life do you feel most hateful. What
does kindredship mean to you? I tore up your picture, taped it back up, now your
back sports an ear like a mouse. And it faces away from me. What roles do love and
abjection play in your life. Share with me something dreggy. Is there something that
you dreamed of doing for a long time and why did you do it? Something to get me
off. Something from the bottom of your brainpan. Limerence? All life is limerent if
you are awake. Open your hand like that magician of our youth and pfffffffffft.
Handful of air, what you perceived was there is gone. Have you ever jamais vued.
Like every every every night? When you are flickering off and your eyelids flittering,
liminal spacey, and that glittery parade behind the lids. Your eyeballs rolling around
under the eye socks like handpuppets. Like every every single morning, reveille.
Different day, same clit. Dirty fingernails who rubbed me so hard with his hand
some neighboring skin peeled away. Not that it stopped me from coming. Name a
treasured memory you lost. How many partners have you forgotten. Do you actually
remember sex, do really recall a specific act or the specific feelings thereof? Or is it
the shadowiest notion of the memory. Have I had many partners or zero? I picture
your face, I hear your name silent from my own throat, and I am a lake. Do you ever
think what if you REM sleepy disordered and froze bodily? If you died tonight. If
you were to fall in innermost forest and no one listened. My brain feels snowed in.
Like there is lint in the trap. I rocked my hips while you were in the bathroom to
make the sperm swim but they all failed to thrive. For whom would you
freeze/unfreeze your sperm. Your vernal pool of sperm? I feel like my brain has
called upon itself to take up arms against itself, my one own and only self, my little
man, my hunky module. My homunculus. Are you securely attached. Three Ambnion
and still my eyes are flying saucers. Nocturnes are known to be subject to early
expiration. Have I told you I am here as I tweak rubbing myself for you swipe swipe
swipe swipe swipe swipe swipe. Has anyone told you how vacant you are. 
How negative you are?

Charles Byrne is a writer with other work published in New American Writing, 45th Parallel, and Clarion.