Poly Questions.

They say you can make someone fall in love with anybody asking them 36 questions and looking into their eyes for 4 minutes. This was conduced in an experiment, which I couldn’t read, because the PDF wouldn’t load. All I have to offer is a random remix of these questions. They were so dull, I couldn’t imagine you falling for me, if we conduced this experiment the way it was supposed to be done. Poly! You didn’t ask me these questions, and I will not impose my answers upon you. Humble like a reclined hero I bow before you, my chin to the chest.The first question is: Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest? How would you reply to that? Poly, I say. More people at my humble table. Why would I serve just one mouth, if there can be many? There are so many of you, how many of me? Poly! Would you like to be famous? In what way? they make me ask and I’m like: well, would I be writing this if wanted to be famous? Would I stand here, on paper, feeling the beautiful connection to the earth, this spaceship we float on through cosmic waves, all is energy, we are all one, Tadasana! Be a mountain! Connect to the ground, touch the sky. I once took a shell from the coast and made it all the way up to the mountaintop. I put the shell into a little refuge of flowers. Like a shrine it was, you know? I did not sing to myself in this moment, I did not sing to someone else. I just took a picture on my analog camera – soon to be mistaken for something worth stealing by a thief just remembered in my sadness about losing an image I took on top of a mountain. Self validation. Let go. Poly! The world is poly! The soul is poly! The skin is poly!

If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be? they ask. Poly I say! Polyphonia of interference with my personality shaped into a diamond by all the pressure of modern, oh so post, poly-modern society! Let me touch you like a record, my needle wants to carres all your scars and play some tunes, tunes of your wounds of the past. You wish you could hold my coppery beard again? Poly! The beard is poly!

If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know? they ask. Truth I hear and all I can think is poly. What’s the truth about yourself? How is asking this even sexy? Do you think this is sexy? Is there any arousal in truth, anything beyond an ephemeral glimpse of short comings shorter than the breath in a panic attack? Does a crystal ball tell me how sweet your butt cheeks taste? The tongue and cock and hand and asshole poly! So is the beard, you remember? You do? Forget about it!

Let go! Let go! Let go!

What roles do love and affection play in your life? Don’t you touch me! Don’t you kiss me! Don’t you caress my ass as if it was all you ever had to touch! Don’t you poly! Oh, actually, do poly. I got carried away by my oppositional disorder. You top? I fuck. You bottom? I bend. None of these flavors are your religion? We kiss and see what happens.

How close and warm is your family? Do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people’s? they ask. How about you? I’ll give you a sec to sink into your memories, stroll down that lane, but quick:

Breathe in through the nose.

Out through the mouth.


I can’t hear you.


Quantify the happiness of your childhood from 1 to 10. How does that feel? That time you didn’t get the Christmas present you wanted, how many points does your childhood drop? Points and drops and memories. Look me in the eye. What do you say? Drops and points and memories? Poly!

Make three true “we” statements each. For instance, “We are both in this room feeling … “:

We are both in this room, feeling that the aesthetication of politics is at the very core of fascism.

We are both in this room, just waiting for a revolution to start right away, not knowing if violence is acceptable and how far we already internalized violence, despite all the humble work on the mat.

We are both in this room, consisting of a limited but unimaginable set of atoms that break down into sub-atomic particles that break down into little strings of energy, covering the rip that goes through the world. Poly!

What is your most treasured memory? Meeting you. Poly! What is your most terrible memory? Meeting you! How can both be the same, you ask me? Twist that fucking ego and, because we all go to Berghain and we all take drugs at unholy hours, so they become poly! Ungodly hours I can’t call them, because the gods are never closer. Unless we dance to the rhythm of the night in the day. The bum’s as poly as the seraphim!

The peaceful art of zen was appropriated for samurai. They were fighting like zen warriors. All their consciousness was supposed to be in the center of their body, two fingers beneath the navel. The sword would cut the air, an occasional throat, but the consciousness would stay right beneath the navel. That’s where I want to hit you. This is, roughly, were your prostate is located and when penetrated. The penetrated male: poly.

If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be? they ask. Make you cum I say. To blunt you think? Let me make you cum, I say. Cum on, I spell it C U M. Because the madman is poly as you my soul are poly! poly! poly! poly! There is so many of you. There is so many of me. Sub-atomic particles and navels to lick and butts to scratch and dicks to stretch. Swords to cut and males to penetrate and happiness to quantify and poly poly poly PDFs. For the typewriter is poly the poem is poly the voice is poly the hearers are poly the ecstasy is poly!

And all that I call poly, isn’t it actually holy?

Holy. Holy. Holy.

So I ask you:

Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want to fuck?


(Performed at Another Story @Another Country, 06.12.2015)

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