the destroyer > text > Aaron Apps


The child rests in the screen near my wild heart like a kitten crying
in a Miley Cyrus performance into tears full of blood diamonds—
my heart is a wrecking ball at the center of a whale I can tuck
my entire skinned body into like meat into a beating architecture,
my entire fake phallus is a soft and beating drumstick of the sea,
my entire world like galaxies of dying chickens in the animal interiors
of my capitalism where they are actually forms of large fish
existing to be caught by some white daddy who has a white daddy.
White daddy, you are in my heart in the form of philosophy,
my heart that is a little german is a little problematic in the soil,
because it claims its roots are roots literally reaching down
to the phallus at the bottom of the bucket of oily chicken,
to the erection between the animals in the drive-in movie theater,
to the space filled with screens that no longer exist to be licked
because the dirt is in the air, and the performance is bloody
like a multitude of photoshopped kittens squirming silently
against the landscape of death and dementia and eating disorders.
My white daddy is my white daddy and you can’t have him.
My white daddy is going to explode like the dead animal
in my mouth that feeds into the wooden storage space
of my hybrid trachea-esophagus that is basically a kitten,
not a kitten’s throat, but the entire kitten-thing crying with saliva,
pressing its little back feet against my heart like needles,
pressing its lips against the chicken made into milk that gathers
in all of the nipples that I have on my insides, that are mainly
composed of manly daddy meat in the abstract, and together we sit,
white daddy, and eat biscuits and tea while getting tracheotomies
that leak into the sea and fill it with cat hair and the rhetoric
of Viagra, the little blue, the little blue heaven in my leaking tea
cup full of man milk full of the leaking everywhere inside of me.