by Bryan Edenfield
The limits of mammalian performance:
attempt to bite off the tip of your finger.
swallow, let the nub of flesh linger, its
chemistry altered first by the toxicity
of your bile and then by your stomach
engage your gag reflex.
remember that the tip is explosive,
the nail, skin, bits of bone,
now a volatile cocktail that, when
it slides past your recently mutated
tongue and copper coated lips,
becomes a burning projectile
traveling at a velocity of 4000 feet
per second, and when it enters my
we have yet to reach that stage.
So much for consciousness, for autonomy.
Are you human? What for?
There are better things to be,
augmentations to exploit,
genes to splice,
molecules to rearrange.
Our designer manufactured flaws:
a lack of expressive and sensual
control over our internal organs
(try to wiggle your toes. now,
try to wiggle your small intestine.),
the inability to perceive large swathes
of the spectrum.
the inability to change skin color.
only one set of genitals per person.
a stunning lack of diversity.
finite faces, the necessary parts can only
be arranged in so many ways
as the population explodes, and if we expect to continue
to look different from one another,
to have distinguishing characteristics,
then we must embrace deformity.
We must allow for a cubist restructuring of the face;
we must allow the nose to hover above the ears;
we must allow the lips to go vertical;
we must allow the eyes to ~plop~ shoot out.
I’ll be the bullet.
I’ll be the weapon and the ammunition.
My body will be a perpetual war zone.
My body will be a game I play.
We will all have tyrannically divine control.
(why be human? Because of the kiss
and the bang)