我不敢太大声说话，有些音色可能是致命的——我想那根弦不太结实，有时我不得不呼吸。或者，我担心我的口气会破坏它光滑的完美，会遮蔽它的明亮，它的尖尖指向我的每一个迷途。我的方式和它一样尖锐——一样没有波纹，一样微妙。我是蒸汽的猎物，是冰冠突然融化的猎物，是地震的碎片，这个世界把我拴在了一起，我把自己困在了一种无限挑剔的敏感状态中，警惕着城堡内部每扇打开的窗户，每一个老鼠洞的出现。一只普通的家蝇——一只飞蛾，当它误把我那闪闪发光的叶片当成光时——我最高领悟的晴雨表。我知道我的恐惧只是一种策略，是关于风的老争论中的一个症结。第一个人格分裂分为一个堤坝/一个奥克勒斯，一个母亲和她近视的儿子。或者，因为一切都是在镜像轴上颠倒过来的，一个疯狂而阴沉的Selcomad。语言就是这样对我的。它颠倒了我的地位:我是国王，但等待我的王冠，无人驾驶，直到它落下来; my kingdom lies in twain to each, I am in half to all. * If only I could reach up, up, and take it in my teeth, suckle that penile projection, cloister its unremitting hardness in the sheath of my throat-- swordswallower who exalts his posture with this adjunct second spine, aligning gut with palate, my groin with my height. * Male means to be in the crime of things here, this frail planet killed wide, maimed down. Male means murder, rape and war. Its indomitable will will not allow approach. All broach will fail. It must fall on you or not at all. * Insane, isn't it? History hangs impregnable to the mind, eager to halve your brain with rift, intrusion and strife, the warrior's dissonance. No whole is hallowed, no peace. Don't let the humor of this scene (when the phallus falls the fears recede) attend you away from its cruelty. * I stand here exposed to whose justice, my crime my Y chromosome. That Y aims his prick point down at me. A dowsing wand that seeks my artesian quench, my depths of death. His insistence sustains me in steel, his encased incursion covers my melt, my metal. Each day he rights me: his richterscaled tremors are my weather, my wherefore: his gloss his gleam condemns my fortunes, his ore loads my gold with schist. His soliloquy interrupts mine at every word. Linebreaks enforced by sword, his poem sunders my rhythm. All mine at last is made him. His blade remembers my name . . .