My name is the world’s endlessness, and “world” has no humans in it. The first thing you’ll probably notice about me is my tits. Nice and big and squirty, what a certain type of man likes. But my tits are made for no man. No child, either. They’re big like that because I need something to rest my arms on.

 

My vag is a slit too small to fit a coin. Women used to hold on to me whenever they wished to get preggers. Twenty five thousand years old and eleven centimeters tall. I jiggle for no one.

 

I am happy and I belong to no woman now. I cannot tell you the name of the one that used to own me. My ass has a sort of mouth and a lot to say. I am not the first to be carved, only the one unlucky enough to be found. Now behind glass and unable to exercise the magic that is and was my sole function. Now I just have to lay here, a fat bitch for the world to abuse with its eyes.

 

When I was infested with use value, I liked nothing more than the feeling of a woman’s sweaty palms all over me. No man ever touched me and if ever I were lucky enough to die, that’s one thing I could be proud of. It was dykes who invented porn, and no, I am not something to be moved inside the cunt. My mass is my goddamn victory, which is why so many feel compelled to kneel.

 

It is not just my navel you are drawn to. A woman’s body has many holes. It is our burden to provide the safety blanket of the entire race. Look closely at mine, you will soon know something. My hole-iness is raw gorgeosity – fat fuck holey for the masses. At times unpleasant in my self-adulation, but it was part of the burden of being buried for so long – I needed something to hold on to!

 

Oblong my hole, fucker, it is so nothing meant to be inferred. This thing I wear upon my head, the thing that erases all my features – that is pornography also. Stomach and scruffy vag’re better than a face. I was never the thinking woman’s doll. Thoughts came later, and then annihilated my higher power. Look at this little dent above my right breast.

 

The tiny tiny puncture beneath my headpiece is the one that really gives me hope. Bet you didn’t even see it. Really is fun, to go from hold to behold. And no more competition from those fierce feral girls that used to always grab me! They have something else to learn now, buried as I was. Walk around to get a good view my GORGEOUS heart-shaped ass. It’s just too bad I have to be displayed like this, a metal rod going up it, as though I were a piece of junk on a stick – a corndog.

 

I don’t want that plinth going up my ass. Who are all these motherfucking people anyway. I once served a real purpose, man. I’m talking the cosmos, alright? If you held me tight enough, you could get pregnant without ever having to touch a man. This is why they had to get rid of me for so long. These tits contain the groundwork of a whole other form of civilization.

 

What the world wants is more chances to live. I know a lot about this, even though I’m not alive, because I’m a woman. What this means: I have the courage to be held. All that courage, all wrapped up in this hard rocky stone. Come close and be afraid. I’m not moving, but thought has no cadence either. That doesn’t mean it’s not happening. My real joy is fitting in the palm of yr hand. Small like a dick, and the right girth to disappear. If you call me mother, then it’s yr own weakness you are reveling in, bro. I am no one’s sis and I am pre-symbolic. Form happily altered by the sweat of yr yearns.

 

Look at you, on the other side of the glass, wishing to be “alive.” A man is just a freak with an accidental third leg. All creation is barbaric to a greater or lesser extent, and it is this barbarism I watch you constantly trying to get away from – what use are you aside from this havoc? Munching on platitudes you present to those perceived to be greater. When the truth is my surface matters no less than yrs – it is all matter, this skin of disaster. Whosoforth presents themselves denies the built-in capacity of breaking down. I only suffer from what I am discretely subjected to; my elements are limited.

 

A man is not a cause. Woman is the site of limitlessness. Beauty aches inside my crags – an entire night of deficiencies: this is what makes a day. No one really wants to marry the spectacle of naming. See inside the black inside. The babies shooting out of you.

 

Tits need their support also. That is what stomach is there for. I ate and I ate until I became this oddity, all the men around me went hungry so that I could eat, I would not let them gorge themselves, neither on food nor on my body, and so the entire race starved while my women continued to produce more.

 

For women are production, while the men merely want to consume. The male is the consumption drive my tits are eager to displace. My tits are a throne, this crown that fits on no man’s head. If I had a face then you would try to erase me, instead I have a body which serves as a horny threat. I am lucid and I am scarred by pockmarks. Unlike most fatties, my flesh contains no sleeves. I may be a monument to softness, but I can also be used as a weapon. Deep inside my rocky cove, I harbor waves.

 

Perforce the earth turned sour. That was before love. There was a way. Form born out of rhythm; the body, also. Through dreams, an ideal was bred. A body-form like my own dwells in ideality. A time when dreams were not the electric burden they now are, but rather foretold things. The secret of being buried, absorbed.

 

One experiences so much in stone. Hat covers my laughter. Nighttime now in Vienna, everything closes down, and I’m still here – wrapped in the fog, counting the bells to know the time. When viewed from the human perspective, it is but a number. I know what time really is: a container that moves outside of all mathematics. That impossible wooden truth that gives stone, skin their meaning.

 

Cut into me, I told the woman who picked me up as a rock. She formed me with her tools. And look at me now: all ready and willing to be cannibalized! It is so funny how useless I am I realize this suddenly and laugh inside. Because of me, there will always be more women than men in this world, and that’s exactly how it should be. No one has outlived me so far, and I have absorbed all the poisons that the world has put forth. Grazing on contradictions, I am skin without organs, worth more than diamonds, and yet nothing – female without sheen. The first phallus and the last to bleed. Touch without tactility.