Another Name for Beauty

A giant’s used sock goes limp in the institution where future bodies are archived. Dimensions die to produce branded surfaces. What of them? Shadows, sutured shadows preventing the earth from bearing fruit. Stretched rinds, collapsed bladders, nothing but preserving preservation. Eggs mirror shadows. Bathtubs of embryos waiting to world themselves. Mud is a fingernail, every forehead an egg: a mirror, glossy, translucent, cracking. Spine-towers, honeycomb armor, the melody-shelf of vertebrae. From the bin grows a machine-plant fruiting an abstract posture. Here animals were opened. Now the opening continues without them. Skin the scale of architecture. Husks waiting, cargo unknown. Every surface a breached membrane. We hold on to things by skinning them. We know what a thing looks like naked. The way forward goes through the wound, which is another name for beauty. - Pontus Purokuru