As written between sleep and not sleep:
pardon me, miss
but you are in violation of section 7 of
chapter 6 code 368.31.7
legs are illegal now
those with, try to hide them
or suffer the bone bruising, cap snapping consequences
Those who have them take them out, show them for money at night.
It’s hard work – having to find a suitable location where they can take them out
& know they won’t get caught
and when they do well
they wish they didn’t because
the cops – aware of how bad this is
and how literally attached they are to their
illicit limbs – take and press full advantage
It’s actually/ultimately not that different from not getting caught because so does everyone else (know, press) and blackmail and sexual manipulation are so far down the charts from having legs and plus it’s so much better with legs just try picturing it without them (gross)
LEG ! COP !*
He has a hat stuck on the top of his stump that keeps the femur from sticking out and disappointing everyone, because otherwise…
It’s a cop hat. He looks like people but in leg form.
The knee is the waist and the foot is the feet.
The mouth is upper-mid-thigh– just where you would want to clamp your hand over and the eyes are above that obviously
A cop hat and holding a baton in the teeth,
as the situation dictates it could be handcuffs or a tazer or a donut;
evidence, cop dog leash, or mace gets wielded with the feet aka the foot;
no one will ever give him a gun and they don’t let him drive;
I hope he dies.
****Now with NEW ACCESSORIES****
– bull horn
– gas mask
– riot shield pant leg
– a double barrel beer helmet but with rubber bullet/pepper pellet blow gun tubes
Kit your Leg Cop out in the standard outerwear of our benevolent all-seeing, all-beating safekeepers.
They can see you in the dark and through your house, sleeping.
More machine than man.
2. Through a house, sleeping
Will that be the point when we finally say enough?
When, as standard police gear, comes some infrared/echolocating/nanomagical eyewear that effectively lets them look in all houses at all times
(And by that time just how too late will it be?)
Genuine Prediction: even then we won’t and will get Real Mad at / condescending towards those who do.
Rowling — by that time all policework will have long been insourced to domestic private militaries. I mean, Unions? slash why be on the hook for benefits when you can pay just as much and escape all forms of culpability, regulation, or oversight?
O! Leg Cop
when you’re driving, just
grabbing it well not grabbing it:
holding it, immensely
Some things you can’t uncontext.
Oh, Leg Cop– will you ever learn?
*note: “This all seems familiar — does Leg Cop already exist? …Oh! Irritability! I remember– did they ever make that thing a cop? But, still. Yeah” http://maze.icomix.com/comicpage/index1.html
Your Hands They’re Mine So Few Hours
hour one: holding for the first moment and moments– magical. After two minutes: well this is happening I guess. After 49 minutes this has gone on plenty long enough. Approaching one full hour. You can’t feel my fingers any more. Not really.
hour two: and come to speak of it, our hands have sort of stopped seeming like four separate things. Speak because I’m saying all this out loud. All nine sentences of it? Yes. All eleven. Or twelve?
hour three: no penny has ever been this sweat-slick. Nothing clutched has by hands quite ever been. Your word order atrophies, inintricaciesates itself. but also my words are your words too. I can feel your palmbeat in your heart. I can see it. Take a picture to long laster, last after.
hour four: no one is laughing. Fingers don’t unentangle now, can’t. It’s. It’s. I don’t think– I think we’ve reached a no-going back point and now *try* no, it’s not ever going to, wait!
hour five: still together but fingers have regained partial autonomy. Got their wiggle back. Also I just ate poison and am d
A. Maybe I’m wrong
B. About what?
A. About loving you.
A. I thought I did, but
A. It could just be, no
B. It could just be what?
A. See? People don’t say things for a reason
B. That’s fucked up.
B. That’s a real fucked up thing to say to someone
A. It’s not all that.
B. You compared my love to a fart.
A. What? No. Not that kind of gas.
B. Fuck you.
A. Like laughing gas, but for love
B. Fuuuck. You.
A. I’m not saying I think you dosed me, just. I feel like maybe
B. Maybe fuck you?
A. Maybe, at some point, either because of some words we said, some words you said to me, or looks we did.
A. Maybe they mixed in such a way that – upon sublimation – something was created that laced in me some too-deep affection.
B. No. Bullshit.
A. And I felt feelings too soon that I shouldn’t have been feeling yet -maybe ever- and now
B. Have some dignity, prick.
A. the whole operation is out of order, the whole process irrevocably botched, and we can never be nothing, something.
B. Don’t talk in headlines at me, prick.
A. I know I’m not wrong, just gassed.
B. Is that it?
B. Do you have any more fucking too cute / so precious nonsense to
B. shove dow– yes!? Yes as in no, or Yes as in fuck you?
A. Yes as in fuck me.
A. The gas isn’t wrong either.
B. Oh Jesus Christ
A. I’m not wrong and the gas isn’t wrong; I still love you
B. Fuck you
A. and also realize I don’t and never have and never will.
B. FUCK you
A. I like breathing it,
A. the gas. I enjoy loving you, being in love
B. No, not ok. Fuck Y- no.
A. with you. I wish I could be in love with you, for real, truly, and that all the love you give me
A. I could in good conscience keep
A. and tuck away, treasure, reciprocate
A. I wish I could let your love not only land but plant, take root and
A. flower, blossom, bloom – cultivate a bumper crop, a tailgate crop, a some other car part crop from which we could harvest enough moments and secrets and dances
A. and heldhands to feed us for
A. well ever.
A. I wish I could have had you have-
B. I wish