I look at my hand
Freshly washed
The faint smell of soap
I waft it through the air
I don’t want the faint smell of soap
I sit down
I am old
Tired
Yet here I am
I should have long since passed from this earth
I lay out on the couch
Prepare myself
I reach my hand
Forward, up, back
It is a violent action as I shove it down my throat
Deep inside
Down, down, down
I have made a cut
Fitted a zip
I pick out the food scraps caught in its teeth, let them slide down into my stomach
I momentarily,
Panic!
I always do
It is my hand
But its like there is something foreign inside of me
I unzip
Reach out
Through
Into where my organs sit
Down to my stomach, I have not been able to chew my food for a long time
I mash it with my hands
Squish and squeeze my innards
I feel my kidneys
Press them hard
They are calcifying in old age, All these things I must do
To stay alive
I push the food
Through my intestine
Its like making a sausage
Because that is how you make a sausage, squeezing it through an intestine
I consider
Should I ?
Will I?
It is possible
To pleasure yourself from the inside, but not tonight
I tickle my lungs
Smile
They still work,
Breathe in, breathe out.
My heart long since past its best, withered and drawn, pulsating to a soft dignified, dying beat
It is my heart
It will fail me soon
I squeeze, release.
Squeeze, release.
It is too old to do it all the time on its own anymore, I must attend to it occasionally
Squeeze, release
Squeeze, release
Squeeze
Release
Squeeze
Release
I find a rhythm, I pump it for maybe an hour or more
Then I pull back my hand
Fumble with the zip
Wrench my hand
out of my mouth.
I will live for another day, there is a secret to eternal life. Now I sleep
A Tuesday Latte 