<<|| [31.10.11] Blake Butler: Cake  ||>>

3/4 cup unsalted butter, softened What I want was to want to be going to the room where you had the eggs, the eggs were to be turned to babies in the warm light but no one was underneath me yet, I had spread me good and was squatted and the VCR light, I wanted to need to rub me harder on the nub of the window into the yard where the bigger ladies had spread the cloth of the Father before all sun and screamed until they became soil like ash had been in the year of my own making, the whole underneath of pigs along the lane, the arms that rose up from the mush and clawed at any length of me I let them, I am so raw in here beside the milk, my tits hurt hard like what a bee is and the bakery is closed and I am cold out here in VCR light and wish to come back in, wish to like to laugh again in small ways with you on the floor spread thin with our tread of the dance in wisdom of Him and washed and stolen from the mossy yards, the overgrowth inside my seedling temple, the quilt of you cut up and sold to geese who’d consumed themselves for pleasure in the gold eye, in the money of him woke again in thrush and smeared against a white wall in summertime for your benefit and my private instance of mirage, the cream that came out of the pill hole beyond resizing, in the photographs of light destroyed, in the milk of you the machine wept into me and hid there for us ever and again, a replicating color, someone’s organs, numbers bloated in a soup, each of which could not be eaten until you let me roll myself inside you and slit your face with what I was, what I could not be again and would not be again for you or anyone despite the eggs spurting their lips, the lips becoming wholly women new to all words and to the stroke of my last hole

2 cups white sugar Coming in to the TV was the TV was being me before I arrived and speaking in my mouth for me to be the words you’d asked of it beneath us unscrolled without my permission without my permission beyond the slur, coming in to the TV was you were backwards before the glass light with the egg shoved up your rumple and basking in the low long nothing where my mother in her wishing had cracked her skull and bled upon the floor with a great fever and filled the house with evening noise, the pink of you was wider than my face had ever been and could not stop, I stood before you stood before me in VCR light and sucked my tongue and kissed the tips of my best fingers before beginning in the prayer, the folded cliffs of chin and thigh meat in the windows blown old open and singing wider in what words we called the night, the cusp of you unveiling overhead of any child and wrapped around the length of years the moon killed, ours

3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder Milkbread in the year of you, mouthed against big women coming against the house to touch the surface of anything anyone had touched, a big round cusp of candy spinning shit into the mouths, teeth turned up around the nipple risen from the earth around the house where milk had spilled out of your back, the spine a crooked mulch, blue mittens on a tomato stalk rising in the pill, a pill large as your skull and punked together from engine dust and cellular division, lengths of skin as long as I have ever been in wishing for you to sniff at my rectal orb of being and become, to become what, where all have given all of anything, to a white, to someone smacking the underbelly of the pig with their whole face and beating on the thrumming chest of He with nothing but a vision of the screws falling out of all the nostrils in the coghead of no eternal face and where the desk must chip away

4 egg yolks Want of want in you around you want to want it wanted like a brown orange turning in the milk stabbed from no gown around the hollow smell of ours, in VCR light overcome by pixels turned on crystal plates to sit against the sun and draw, what mayonnaise would spurt from where the gorge divided our home by centuries between the room where I first masturbated and the white surrounding ring around the tub taking our last ideas and eyes from heads under the curve of the sink, a lip of paste that calls the name again once spat into the want that wants to ejaculate before the meat is rough and woke from egg disease and smaller vision coined in the lids stretched before orbit could begin, the house barfed from itself and told a new corn, our table spread so thick there are no seats, no mouth in the whole of the gleamroom while still the potatoes turn gold-pink, the peas erupt and become eggs passed back and forth between the scrim of He of no guilt, a crib made of the bones of the child

1 teaspoon baking soda The center of you was wires behind the dry eye in all things

2 tablespoons cold water I drew the bone across the violin beside the loaf of humming and the rods of the yard were long and the rivers that poured from hidden city, named for curled skin and a lock, the shotgun up my skirt had vision and could rail the dinner tables from that long glown spot surrounded, the flat of the tables risen across the white grass to call and click around our face and enclose the home with surfaces removed of food though balked with the smell of them and beef dynasty like cows beneath our feet beneath our soil, devolved in Saturn hour and called for nothing to come to stand while the surfaces folded down, width eating its length and girth at once into a click-phrase like what had come out of all our hands accessing the big noise forever underneath the bone across the violin as I stroked it and me at once with both arms pooling chowder in its dimples and you in the back room with the goat, cold minions of a fury squirming from the clocks, knots killed in the eyes of those that had appeared laid facedown in the bedroom beside the mark where mom had turned into herself again the way the cream would waddle in her to become us and we had left her empty there and been not her and never asked her name or what kind of dressing or who or why and even as she volunteered to stand beneath the fire and milk for us again and pour her want out for the time being to surround and defend from kitchen tables or horses or black shit or whatever else and we in VCR light again and in the snake again taking turns biting off its head, where though it regrew with eyes shades paler it was still beneath us and slept inside our heads, the cages of the city rising up to rub against the backside of the tables as they enclosed and made the harp noise and the violin was in my chest and was my chest and was someone arriving at the door on the far side of me I could not see, I could not get the egg out of my brain meat and it was sawing fortresses inside me to blank the night away and divide on paper and become the books in rooms where people slept beside nothing on a bale of fat curled from us all sweated in the hog systems we’d devised to develop better sausage for our children and had turned against us to make us cleaner as when the moon turned again to show the far side as it had when we began we would need to have the adhesive in our innards and the best spot of us to stick to eternity and all I wanted was another egg another song another table another mother another sister another wish and all I would get was all of that unending and I would want it all again, where the words beefed out they would not console me in the slightest while I came and came

1/2 cup strong brewed coffee A pig inside a slur inside a year inside a father breasfeeding himself with his idea of god returned, while on the porch beneath the blue nails the flour turned around to face the crumbling mirrored wall of our ex-crypt, the kitchen where the lard was waiting and the mother stunk

1 cup coffee flavored liqueur, divided The hair grew out on your body until there was nothing at the center and still I came with the comb and waited for you to emerge from the curd of what we’d eaten together under night, hidden in the camera room from holy winter to keep our hamhocks tight against the bulge of the crotch of the house where no one had remembered what we’d hidden there before the shells dripped down like mice and filled our nostrils with the fever we would use to disassemble any daily logic or retributional image we could stand on when the areola absorbed so much of the ground that there would be no house that remained, the windows in the cities so translucent they looked on nothing ever, we ate and ate, we cleaned our fists and marked the arrows through the house to lead anybody there appearing to where I had entered you and filled my back hot with the money you inherited when at last He passed into mulch and did not rain, no paper not blanched all orange and screaming emergency to the author before the ink could lift

2 tablespoons vanilla extract Milk from your eye milk from your body milk from milk inside of milk and burned with glaze ripped from my sternum in the crust of what I gave you when I could and what I could not give when I could have and milk from candy milk from rash milk from the dog inside the earring we buried Him with before we could remember in the soil beyond the field where infants rolled in their own muck and spoke the numbers of the phones we’d call to kill the endless world, to pink the milk out of a body and raise it up and give it breath, the child a world had listened for and never been inside the milk on all that film

1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour This will serve no purpose but to have killed another day of me, which is anything

4 egg whites Your face cracked open on the ground beside the house and filled the house with pudding of no memory and that was how the basement learned to quack and all the birds were shooting out of hidden monuments in cream rinse and the sand erupting through the speaker holes in the TV and the metallic clicking of the machine hoarding it all in with its big snatch we called a wall, which we had laid against and prayed for and hung our names on and seen disappear inside no light, the slimmest space all of the mass of every inch of years could have been crushed into held in one tiny plastic frame, one sentence in a menagerie of goats and apes and snakes

1 cup confectioners' sugar The ash is mine

Blake Butler's most recent book is Nothing.

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