To the Reader
This, reader, is a dishonest book. I make no concessions that it be read, nor that it even be glanced upon in passing. Perhaps, truthfully, it should best find its home in the wastebasket. But since it is here, written, it will at least find its way into my personal files where I might someday happen upon it in my old age and see it for what it is: the work of a young man who, either through hubris or malice or some combination of the two, found himself in the midst of a complete hatred of poetry. Unfortunately, this book that I cannot take seriously, often takes itself a bit too seriously. This is the book’s fault, not my own. Like all things borne of man, it had the habit of running away to make love to itself in the hopes of birthing other similarly damnable offspring. It is my hope that I was able to sedate it long enough to keep the possibility of its accursed kin from the rest of mankind. I have no thought of public fame, nor any private dream of attaining “the truth” (whatever that may be). No, this book is to be read, if at all, with a skeptical, if not wholly cynical, mind. A book for, and by, a fool. So, reader, I give you this manuscript which I am everything and nothing of its substance. It has all but eaten me alive.
Farewell, then, from Gregory M. Pokarney, this 14th day of February, 2006
I sit down and say to my wife of 100 years “I don’t love you anymore and maybe I never did” and that is that. She cries, and says “I have a tumor” and well, we all have tumors don’t we? that’s nothing new. She says she doesn’t know what to do now, doesn’t know what to do. I don’t care. I don’t believe her. She always knows what to do, is good on her feet, a fast learner. She always finishes the crossword puzzle hours before I do, even on Sundays.
My wife is blind and talks to shoes. She knows all about pumps and flats; about closets full of shoes. I find her in the closet sometimes talking to her shoes like children. We never had children of our own, didnâ€™t want them. She wanted them, but wanted shoes more, and I told her she had a choice: shoes or children and she chose shoes. I think, from time to time, she regrets her decision. I never did. And that is coming from someone who doesnâ€™t give a shit about shoes.
My wife has begun to look like a fish. An old fish, with long whiskers and withered, wrinkled fins.
Her arthritis keeps her from doing much these days.
She canâ€™t swim
anymore, and because of this she has gotten fat. Now she sinks right to the bottom of the public pool. Her head has shrunk, too, and when she sinks to the slippery pool floor, her swimming cap bubbles and pops to the surface. It floats there like the one breast she still has left.
I believe my wife has taken a lover: I had stopped buying my wife flowers when she started eating them. That was sixty years ago, and now, every once in awhile, Iâ€™ll find dried, barren stems in the kitchen garbage can, and can smell roses on her breath as she naps in the next room.
It is difficult to feel sexy when your body is failing you. I have begun to take polaroids of my erections, when I do get them, and paste them into a scrapbook so that when it finally becomes impossible to achieve a hardon, I’ll have proof: “There! Look!” I’ll tell anybody who’ll listen, “There was a time when I was a virile man who was capable of getting and sustaining massive erections for hours at a time!”
Now that I have told my wife our marriage is over, I am looking forward to dating again. I feel like a high roller at the finest of Vegas buffets. (Although my erectile dysfunction has made it increasingly difficult to be intimate with a woman as I hate to eat pussy.)
My wife has just told me that she plans to end her life. She says that there is no point anymore, as if there ever was a point before. I told her that I thought it was one of the best ideas that she has come up with for some time. She agreed. We never agree, so this is a major breakthrough for our marriage.
I have just found out that kids donâ€™t have to learn long division these days. Now how are they ever going to learn how to solve their problems? And kids these days have a lot of problems. . .
I have decided to join my wife in suicide. Not some lover’s leap or anything dramatic. We’re going to divvy up all the pills in the house, wash them down with the vodka I keep under the sink, and sit on the couch and watch “Wheel of Fortune.” I might hold her hand for as long as I can keep a grip. I am going to sit there and tell her all the things that I have kept from her, as she nods in and out, humming the songs we used to dance to back when way back when then:
CHAPTER XXVI the fingers are all broken and the music complements nothing (nothing like jazz goes). forge. nothing makes stories makes theory makes making made easy. tasty violence corroded.
CHAPTER 13 I wake up and finger my face. Wash the asshole steady stream clean go. I get so bored when not dreaming or thinking about sex.
CHAPTER 4 On my roof, pigeons appear and pick at the cigarette butts Iâ€™ve left there over the past week. They are skinnier than pigeons normally are, and clearly have no idea how to feed themselves. I am reading Doestoevsky and thinking about snow.
CHAPTER XX imitation in and out. accounts for large hands and the farmerâ€™s cathedral. build to be built.
CHAPTER 11 Reading is like loving and is boring and is in love with being boring.
CHAPTER 2 Nobody knows what masterpieces are. The farther we go, the further we get, and there’s a small figure in the distance, waving. It’s too soon to tell if it’ll make any difference, or what difference even is, there’s so much difference. We are still trying to move.
CHAPTER XXV making vaginas
CHAPTER XV things less confident to bridge zombie hash. genre cooks books well done well done. weâ€™re done with books.
CHAPTER XVI chisel Chagall cheated forked dumb. a mess of cast and fugitive brokers. fizzeled and Irish.
CHAPTER 7 I canâ€™t remember the last time I read a good book. Itâ€™s no wonder that children need to be bribed in order to read. Sometimes I wish I would get a pizza party for finishing (or even picking up for that matter) the latest Don DeLillo novel. Does Don DeLillo even like pizza?
CHAPTER 3 I don’t remember half of what I read. I have to re-read things constantly. That’s why I have to buy every book I read. If I get a book from the library, in a week I won’t even remember that I ever read it. In high school I had to memorize the opening of ‘The Canterbury Tales”. I can still remember that. But I forget if I ever read the rest of it.
CHAPTER XIV all the white girls go: praise be to G
CHAPTER XXIV in these shatters just pictures sans topics fashionable accomodations relent to trees. said ed. eager into play. re-crossing the road til road equals white. and little black.
CHAPTER 5 Writing is the best bet for those who canâ€™t do what they really want to do. I write is because I have little talent for making movies.
The only reason
CHAPTER 12 Do people still â€œreadâ€? pornography anymore? Do they hold a book in one hand, their genitals in the other, and ever reach orgasm?
CHAPTER XVII true story, tradition, probably the best thing that could have happened (remains male)
CHAPTER XXII instant thin popping and feature private like unkempt narrative [holes] figures hold one another tends for grasp fat instant
CHAPTER 8 Itâ€™s encoded in me: I repeatedly read my life like a book, forever in a willful suspension of disbelief.
CHAPTER 6 The structure of things is little more than a bad habit. We are always bumping into the walls of our house, and, disoriented, we act like spoiled children too willful to go to bed yet too drunk to be able to stand.
CHAPTER XXI it starts darling too much mileage ill informed youth wrong dominant attack living equivalent consumer aesthetic. book myself at all costs. nominate to kill. missing ken missing.
CHAPTER 9 I find it hard to believe my own lies anymore.
CHAPTER XVIII sexy wet boy is sex still. lash out and forward forward. thrust upon thrust until wet and still.
CHAPTER 10 I am writing from a distant land: there is a man here who broke my head open only to find it stuffed with dry, cracked blank pages. We had never been properly introduced, yet he crumples each page in his hand until they disintegrate and blow two towns over, like ashes.
CHAPTER XXIII books are made for clubbing.
CHAPTER XIX all the certain things. perspective bleeding. punishment demands tradition on page. produced reading is product of silence. point in bliss and non-bliss. point in lessons learned and inhabit. the stench of hands on shelves, flipping.
CHAPTER 1 The things we whisper about
ON THE CANNIBALS
Boys who eat girls who eat boys that taste like girls who eat girls who eat boys like they’re girls while the girls eat the boys who eat boys like they’re girls eating girls
always eat the one you love
I just called to say I love you & Iâ€™m sorry &I love you
& (stupid. stupid. stupid.)
Friendship feels for fun and forgetting. Forget friendship, I want to be alone. Not alone with felled friendship lost. With friendship w/out. Without friendship found or lost. Fast friendship forever. Drinks and smokes with friendship. I want to be alone. Called or calling called never returned. Friendship first. Youâ€™re my best friend. Best friend better than friendship. Forget friendship I want to be alone.
Friendship first different for lovers. Friendship different for others past. Friendship is as is understood. We understand. We understand friendship and forget the rest. Heaped friends pigpile and squirm. It feels heavy.
Can we still be friends?
You can be friends with a murderer and not know anything about your friend. Friends murder all the time and we murder and laugh. We hold our murders in our mouths and whistle. It is hard to whistle with a murder in your mouth.
He wants to be friends.
We watch porn and jerk off and wipe up and still are friends. Friends first or lovers past. There are beds stained and friendships strained. In someone elseâ€™s apartment.
What dangerous factors does friendship face? In what psychological condition?
The direct factor: In Mexico a man was found sleeping next to the half-devoured body of his good friend, whom he had killed and had begun to eat in order to destroy the evidence of their friendship.
And mirrored friendship: â€œI had grown so accustomed to be his second self in everything that now I seem to be no more than half a man.â€?
Friendship for what? Friendship for feeling and forgetting what we are, what we are doing and why we are doing it.
I want to be alone.
o yeah I love that hot hairy silence in my face flower that hole nice and wet sing ya I love the taste of your silence the smell of your hearts big hairy hearts and they bounce on my forehead like singin’ water balloons swollen with so much distress let me spread your silence wide so I can get a better taste of that hot hole and you grab my shadow and start sucking real slow how I like it and you love my shadow in your mouth going deep in that shadowhungry mouth of yours and your flower wraps all around the head the tip of it teasing it like a bitch sing holy sing that feels good I’ve never been so hard I want to blow my distress all over your face shoot it straight down your throat all over the bed the walls a singin’ fountain of distress and ooohh I want to get my flower so far in your silence feel it tighten around my flower you’re the singin’ girl now bitch and on your knees bitch so you
can take my big hard shadow right up your silence and I’ll pump you so full of distress you’ll be shittin’ white for weeks and you can feel my big hearts oh yeah my singin’ hearts slapping your bitch silence you dirty bitch you like my shadow so far up your silence and I reach around and grab your big hard shadow and just squeeze it grab onto it so it feels like your shadow head’s gonna pop and I rip out your back hairs with my teeth and spit ‘em out one by one as I keep pumping that silence pumping and I flip you over your legs all up in the air and I spit all over your hard chest rubbing your stars getting’ those hard stars so wet and I pinch ‘em and you grab my silence and pull it closer to you makin’ my shadow go so far inside you and you squeal and moan and say “sing ya! sing me!” and I do and you love it love that big shadow inside you tearing you up and I lean down and stick my flower in your mouth and we swirl our flowers around wrestling and I pull your hair and bring your head closer to mine so close I can almost swallow your flower whole and I want you need you to be the boy now and you sit on the edge of the bed and I sit on your hard shadow feel it go in inch by singin’ hard silence inch until I feel like I could singin’ distress at any moment and you grab my shadow at the base of it and hold it in and glide your shadow slowly in and out of my silence oh sing it’s so slow and your shadow is so singin’ big but I take it all in and your legs tighten under mine I can feel your leg hairs all sweaty rubbing against mine and I love being your bitch and you bite my ear stick your flower deep inside deep getting it all clean you dirty cunt and you lean back so you can see your big shadow go in and out of me watch it disappear and I squeeze your knees knowing I’m gonna singin’ shoot and you say “I love your singin’ silence! love singin’ your singin’ hot silence” and I blow and shoot distress
all up in my face and it’s in my hair and sticky and then you moan and tighten your body rigid and shoot gobs of distress deep inside me and I can feel it splash inside me and you hold me tight around the chest and bite my neck hard and you pull your shadow outta my silence all gooey and it slaps against your thigh a loud “thwap” and I get hard again just hearing that but instead I lay you down and tell you I love you and we cuddle until morning and watch cartoons until the cartoons are over and the news is on
So a man walks into a bar and he says to the bartender that he’s got a special request. He says that he needs the bartender to shoot him in the face if he tries to order a drink. The bartender goes, “Whoa! I can’t do that! I’ll go to jail!” and the man says “But you gotta! I’ve got a terrible drinking problem and the only way for me to stay off the sauce is to know that if I do actually touch the stuff, I’ll die!” The bartender thinks and scratches his head while he’s thinking. The man is getting impatient waiting for the bartender to agree his request and pulls out a gun from his pants and lays it on the bar. “Look, you don’t even have to use your own gun! You can use mine!” The bartender, still unsure about the situation, continues to scratch his head, thinking. All of this thinking is starting to upset the man, who by now really wants a drink. “Listen, either you do it or I’ll shoot you!” The man figured that this was the only way for the bartender to relent to his request. “Now I don’t need any trouble here Mister. I think you better go, before I call the cops.” The bartender says, using his best serious bartender stare. The man is by now furious. He takes the gun off the bar and shoots the bartender right between the eyes. “I was serious when I told you I would shoot you if you didn’t shoot me if I asked for a drink. And now I’ve shot you. I hope you’re happy.”
So a man walks into a bar and he says to the bartender that he’s got a special request. He says that he needs the bartender to shoot him in the face if he tries to order a drink. The bartender goes, “Whoa! I can’t do that! I’ll go to jail!” and the man says “But you gotta! I’ve got a terrible drinking problem and the only way for me to stay off the sauce is to know that if I do actually touch the stuff, I’ll die!” The bartender thinks and scratches his head while he’s thinking. The man is getting impatient waiting for the bartender to agree his request and pulls out a gun from his pants and lays it on the bar. “Look, you don’t even have to use your own gun! You can use mine!” The bartender, still unsure about the situation, continues to scratch his head, thinking. All of this thinking is starting to upset the man, who by now really wants a drink. “Listen, either you do it or I’ll shoot you!” The man figured that this was the only way for the bartender to relent to his request. “Now I don’t need any trouble here Mister. I think you better go, before I call the cops.” The bartender says, using his best serious bartender stare. The man, figuring the bartender was indeed serious about his threat, packed up his gun and quietly left the bar.
So a man walks into a bar and he says to the bartender that he’s got a special request. He says that he needs the bartender to shoot him in the face if he tries to order a drink. The bartender goes, “Whoa! I can’t do that! I’ll go to jail!” and the man says “But you gotta! I’ve got a terrible drinking problem and the only way for me to stay off the sauce is to know that if I do actually touch the stuff, I’ll die!” The bartender thinks and scratches his head while he’s thinking. The man is getting impatient waiting for the bartender to agree his request and pulls out a gun from his pants and lays it on the bar. “Look, you don’t even have to use your own gun! You can use mine!” The bartender, still unsure about the situation, continues to scratch his head, thinking. All of this thinking is starting to upset the man, who by now really wants a drink. “Listen, either you do it or I’ll shoot you!” The man figured that this was the only way for the bartender to relent to his request. “Now I don’t need any trouble here Mister. I think you better go, before I call the cops.” The bartender says, using his best serious bartender stare. The man realized the bartender was serious about calling the cops and apologized. He told the bartender his story, which involved much hard luck with money and women. He told the story of how booze had lost him his job, his wife, his children, that it had made a monster of him and how he didn’t know what he could do to get out of his situation. He told the bartender of his desire to change, but that he needed help. He told the bartender of the gnawing emptiness deep in his gut, and the loneliness. Oh, the loneliness was unbearable. . . The bartender listened to the man’s story, his brow furrowed with compassion. It was the saddest story he had ever heard. The bartender then took the gun off the bar and shot the man in the face.
ON INJURY WARNING: The innermost lovely strands a stretch mark to the sea. Washed appropriately, it will keep for up to seven weeks (at which point it is advisible that you deposit it in the nearest waste container).
WARNING: If you decide not to believe it is your own fault for the things that will happen to you.
WARNING: He has yet to be apprehended. WARNING: It is not black and white, nor sufficient.
WARNING: And now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now: and now:
WARNING: If rash persists, relish it. There are few things in this world better than a good rash. If possible, allow rash to fester and bloom until foams to spool, thus promptly turning in ever widening circles.
NO. WARNING: The most appropriate response it to wink at whoever wins.
WARNING: Keep moving as fast as you can.
WARNING: Sailors are not your friend. They will rape and kill you once they discover that you like to remake your purity every Thursday afternoon.
WARNING: There are people eager to destroy all of logic and cherry blossoms.
WARNING: That horse will not go uphill.
ON JUSTICE She is your Libran bitch. A picnic lunch of just ice cream and toast. Spread legs on toast, her ass is flat. There is no justice in sex or murder. Cannibal men eat her out. A cabal of old truths. Sex and murder said no emotions. No emotions, clear and dyed blue. A horse wrench wagon. Wagon who? Wagon or yoke you told her better. Clementine is just, yes, just her and you. You watch her finger herself, too tight to bargain with. She is not interested in you and pays you no mind.
He is the one side of the coin. Flipped on his back, he is military ideal. Briefs down to the knees, he aims to please. Tropical malady on eastern hillsides, tropes like animal torture. That fat cigar rhymes with his groin. It burns your asshole deep rolled tipped shit. It makes you piss the waste of it, the horror and the bliss of it. He rolls another. Under blankets, pup-tented to vault. Hidden cameras caress the embarrassed part of you, the part that screams stop when you know it was meant to be.
It is the kangaroo mob, titled gangster gathering. Symmetrical balance sunbeam fiction. Raisins bleeding or catching cold, the spanking you earned and liked. Poverty deteriorating to maturity, the existence for generations sheltered from individuality. Corrupt conditioning, in particular, it releases you from yourself. You take it when you want it and want it often. That is itâ€™s it. You can either swaddle it in jewels or steal them for yourself there is no sin to sin. All the judgment is left to the leaves, piled on the ground.
He is masking again. Bug eyed bleary. Shades of plaster, alabaster tomb. He will curse God again and split in two. Lies against white wall hustle. Open him not knowing no such thing as sound. Pimpled scar on his back, burst vessel and hard willed. There are reasons of justice. He meanders toward your. He holds illuminations, wears red bowties, is desired. What we all want is not to want wanting to stop wanting and waiting and wearing our wanting like water. He knows this and knows we know he knows all of this.
She craves swallowed whole. Awake, she turns over and tells you her dreams. Gibberish pours out, and tangible wine. Aversion to; recast as morning hunger. She licks the milk you leave by the door. Tether the vines together like so much still. She raises hell and likes tall black boots. She gives you forks and knives and you cut yourself to be her. White horse and picking mud, teeth like alarming cliffs. Bitten down, forced the feeding she is so tired in the wicked acoustics of the apartment next to yours.
ON KNOWLEDGE FROM THE EXHIBITS OF THE MUSEUM OF PLYLITHIC AND DECAYED INTELLIGENCE > > > > WITH CONTRIBUTIONS FROM THE SOCIETY FOR THE RESTITUTION OF PLYLITHIC AND DECAYED INTELLIGENCE > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > FUNDED ENTIRELY BY THE TRUSTEES > > > > > PL CODE 03.06.97.088.92.8126.96.36.199
FROM THE EXHIBIT “MIRACLES AND DISASTERS IN RENAISSANCE AND BAROQUE THEATER MECHANICS” > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > >
Catalogue No. 263 > HOW TO TRANSFORM A MAN INTO A ROCK OR SIMILAR OBJECT > No underlying divine creation passing fully without family. Craftsmanship sulking and furnished solid, a not-solid, as a result from a fusion of two groups of clansmen. Divine the hair, as rocks (or similar objects) have none. > Excess hair can be made to resemble moss. > The solid, a not solid, can scramble codes to the this-side-of, or filiations, and occupy space where no space is left. Divine the legs between and oppress or push towards a tendency to pronounce â€œduâ€?. Pronunciation, or displacement, can be sold or bartered towards a flow to desire or social production. > Some factors depend on the rock, or similar object, and cannot be otherwise hidden. > Pleasant feelings flow, afterwards. > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > >
Catalogue No. 269 > HOW TO REPRESENT A RIVER THAT SEEMS TO FLOW CONSTANTLY > Fig. 187.1 (152 mm) >
> > The process standing still with alliance to movement blown by accident of greatest elements no longer is inscribed or marked according to oneâ€™s capacity or capital (capital-money being true with only one respect in regards to water). > Preconditions to flow include, but are not limited to, labor and sexual awakening, often in the form of Spanish-speaking girls under the age of fourteen. > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > >
FROM THE EXHIBIT “SPECIAL CASES: NATURAL ANOMALIES AND HISTORICAL MONSTERS” > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > >
Catalogue No. 629 > THE FETAL HORN OF MARIE D’AVON OF THUSSILY > > > “We were shown a most horrible protrusion from which an almost curious history has since been documented. The fetal horn, or gftenken as some primitive societies have called it, wards off all evil spirits whilst in the womb. In all humans save Marie D’Avon of Thussily, it is torn from the fetus’ head upon traveling the birth canal. > Ms. D’Avon subsequently grew to full adulthood with her fetal horn clearly visible. Much notice has been taken of it in scientific literature of the time, yet curiously, no photographs of the woman with fetal horn in place have survived. > The fetal horn, in its entirety, is all that is left of Ms. D’Avon, who, it must be noted, led an enchanted life free from strife until her death at the age of 97 years of age. > We were also told that by simply touching the fetal horn we would be cursed with bad luck for the rest of our mortal years.”* > > > *Early visitor of the Museum. > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > >
FROM THE EXHIBIT “PHYSICAL PHENOMENAE: VOULES OF CRONINTHIA” > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > >
Catalogue No. 1055 > > LIFE IN EXTREME SUBLIMATION > > > Hypersymbolic cognition often creates busted rots. Failing everything, the voule must compromise its cultural material and present traps for its liquidation of desire. Any example can be given, many more striking than the other, but the discovery of multiple voules in the eastern most tip of Croninthia led many travelers to suspect a volume of fluid had never achieved, nor attempted, true sublimation. > Extreme sublimation attacks germinal flow, with an intensity of variation that can exhaust a full body. Chain fluids eroded from within the body of a voule will shift and slide until further blocked. A signifying chain that is both codable and not codable. > The flow, or shift, of non-sublimated fluid of the voule is representative of the influx of repressed desires and/or disjunctive syntheses. > Previous characteristics include inter-internal activities of a pre-existing voule and its subsequent machinery or organism. > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > >
ON LOSS Dear M, Certain past events cannot be tricked into systems of feeling. Iâ€™m more interested in circled memories and half-empty hospital rooms, for sure, but that doesnâ€™t make yellow white. I could sign for your package, implying developments my little fingers could never crack, but where did it come from in the first place? The hole where singing meets ceremony is deep and is filled with teeth.
we can talk all we want about keeping someone alive and it might actually be the best way to make enough breath to say “now you’re missing him”
Dear M, These photographs, too, are covered in sticky fingerprints. They gel to one another, unable to let go. In one, a smudge of marshmallow burns your face and I can hear her crying in the room next to mine and then someone shuts a door.
in the old house we wander and search but are unable to ever find string, or bricks, warm blankets, anything that could be of use
Dear M, Thatâ€™s us going out to sea. We are slipping into old shadows, margins of so many defective bones. I can connect to that desire now, that need to push further out, where the big fish are. Something fleeing darkness can only be narrated as logical. Bright wavelengths heightened to gaps, they rise to the surface, break, and remain buried to the neck. They take up so much space.
impossible to move sitting next to the stalk of you now the end of thin spotted curtains and rubber: the music has become just notes, bruises on a white page
Dear M, Disease either deepens or destroys desire. Faster and faster, reflexes dissolve and you are left with an astonishingly old face. I was thinking, now that so many Marches have past, Is this what itâ€™s like to be open? I appear shut off behind glass edges and can hear your shallow groans become my own. The wheeze and the hiss of these loyal certainties.
she holds your penis lightly as you pee and rubs your back to make it seem better as I am ushered out by doctors who close doors and give me rotten lollipops
Dear M, Alone in the house, the process seems stripped and ruined. I babble to myself about the weather and it amazes me that we call that living. Emptiness is distributed evenly across the carpet, something Iâ€™ll someday be able to describe accurately. Someone has left a bowl full of persimmons on the kitchen table. They will turn to jelly long before I do.
adross made content for pleasant because European hardens stars for park bench and ugly buttons every without social (circle) the should be to modern clock what fingers beach or control night body better allegro con games (personally tuna) or shun or stopped the stop dance trop trap in flapped medicated flip and beggar wide legged balded egged dreams elements to be elements every so often sonata (form) liner tested note for note for pants for notes period spluge period waste mama with deposit cramps markets hot for miracles games blinded car system for double vowels somewhere speech only goes technically plump harp holes make messes in weather staying video electric glock for song disruption closet too ingest just
adagio real wrong collapse worded final probe and napping sons collect muffle in camera staffed beat in the coke vault
klepto talked out opposite true force names gone yellow jimmied the screw noose for elegant long goose interest hole your opera Vivian tell air and owlish punts chopped from cinder air mom kept nice staring at not pool under tether & put down whoâ€™s heir her hair moaned in
not having not nothing bath for made of feathered sweet dash rejects skilled little codes over happen imagine can violence get viola in as compound islands banter tilt applecart woe pop sacrifice complexion stall grilled grab ass as smokes on the cape of or heaved flowers quell crabbed moving steel needles grain of names too close platinum poetry bested reading read attentive felled listening preto whitening could weaken sound or sounding faint enough signifier curse antic anyway whirrl as soon the new study of what under wet with Trojan ears told fumbling in church bloom another certain spring croons snow and prevailing restriction urchin vestibule out hand handled poorly subtract divided by four meaning total roads bet van fuck wristed out skinny shake microphone legs and kisses best got remembered shrubs wilting tiny razors geese for green kept coming green lectured nest and arcade rendered that â€œxoxo, Gretchenâ€? jejuned wordsnipers sally-sack-em-all out subways in traditional shelters yoked hole as ping operated back water spill annoint harmony as heaven in heaven in for out zed nought nought never not scrawled loose in perfect keyed to be surface & old & decay
FUGUE (in four voices)
Oh Darling! everybody’s trying to be with you. Anyone who had a heart would stay awhile. He’s got something. Guess who? Now that you see: I saw her standing there, all together. Let’s dance, any time at all. Do you want to be my baby. Today I met the boy I’m gonna marry then he kissed me. The look of love. It goes like it goes. You set my dreams to music. Who gets your love? Silly, silly fool. I wanna be a free girl. Oh Darling! everybody’s trying to be my baby. It was easier to hurt him. You don’t. They let us fall in love. It goes like it goes. Who gets your love? Just once in my life be my baby. Today I met the boy I’m gonna be. Chained to a memory. I close my eyes and count to tell you: There’s a place for no one. Bad boy, don’t have to say you love me. This could be the night. Girls can tell. Walking in the rain, he hit me and it felt like a kiss. I love how you love me. The look of love. What’s it gonna be? Give me time. I close my eyes and count to ten. Am I the same girl? Let me love you. When I get home, tell me why why the things we said today. Something I want to know him is to love how you love me. This could be the night. Girls can tell. Walking in the rain, he hit me and it felt like a kiss. I love you. When I saw you I wish I never need more than this. Little boy, he’s a rebel. Is this what I get for loving you, soldier baby of mine? So young, all grown up. To know him is to love how you love me. Every breath I take, I’ll cry instead. I’ll be back. When I get home, tell me why why the things we said today. Something. Now that you’re my baby. Because I’m a loser, I’ve just seen a face come together now. Yesterday I should have known better. If I fell, I’ll never need more than this. Little boy, he’s a rebel. Is this what I get for loving you, soldier baby of mine? So young, all grown up. To know a secret? Tell me why why the things we said today. Something I want to know him is to love
him. I only want to be with you. Slowdown, you know my name: Michelle. Yes it is. Last night I dreamt that I never need more than this. Little boy, he’s a rebel. Is this what I get for loving you, sweet and tender hooligan. Money changes everything, and meat is murder. Hand in glove, the queen is dead, and pretty girls are bigger than others. What difference does it make? Still ill. Girlfriend in a coma, I know it’s over. Some girl? Let me love you. When I get for loving you, soldier baby of mine? So young, all grown up. To know a secret? Tell me what you’re my baby. Because I’m a loser, I’ve just seen a face come together now. Yesterday I should have known better. If I fell, I’ll never need more than this. Little boy, he’s a rebel. Is this what I get for loving you, sweet and tender hooligan. Money changes everything now. I won’t share you, sweet and tender hooligan. Money changes everything, and meat is murder. Hand in glove, the queen is dead, and pretty girls are bigger than others. What difference does it make? Still ill. Girlfriend in a coma, I know it’s over. some girl? Let me love you once before you go. I’d rather leave while I’m in love. Give me time. What’s it gonna marry then he kissed me. This could be the night. Girls can tell. Walking in the rain, he hit me and it felt like a kiss. I love you. When I get home, tell me what you’re my baby. Today I met the boy I’m gonna be? Chained to a memory. I close my eyes and count to tell you: There’s a place for no one. Bad boy, don’t have to say you love me. This could be the night. Girls can tell. Walking in the rain, he hit me and it felt like a kiss. I love how you love me. The look of love. It goes like it goes. You set my dreams to music. Who gets your love? Silly, silly fool. I wanna be a free girl. Oh Darling! everybody’s trying to be my baby. It was easier to hurt him. You don’t have to say you love me. Every breath I take, I’ll never need more than this. Little boy, he’s a rebel. Is this what I get for loving you, soldier baby of mine? So young, all grown up. To know him is to love him. I only want to know a secret? Tell me why why the things we said today. Something I want to be my baby. It was easier to hurt him. Why don’t they let us fall in love? Just once in my life be my baby. Today I met the boy I’m gonna be. Chained to a memory. I close my eyes and count to ten. Am I the same girl? Let me love you. When I get for loving you, sweet and tender hooligan. Money changes everything, and meat is murder. Hand in glove, the queen is dead, and pretty girls make
graves. What difference does it make? Still ill. Girlfriend in a coma, I know it’s over. Some girl? Let me love you? Baby, I love you. When I get home, tell me why why the things we said today. Something. Now that you’re my baby. Because I’m a loser, I’ve just seen a face come together now. Yesterday I should have known better. If I fell, I’ll cry instead. I’ll be back. When I get for loving you, soldier baby of mine? So young, all grown up.
APOLOGY FOR M
M kept counting: fourteen, seven, eight, forty, thirty-one. I listened to what was pleasant about them, as sounds floated ugly (to me) which I liked. M holds forth. He slides my legs up across the table and I watch from the mirror held slightly aloft (two of them, actually). A corrupt sense of self catches me off guard, or, rather, leaves me feeling stoned. I regard the two mirrors held slightly aloft as a principle â€“ a matter to recall later when I could. A mirror never appears to itself, truly. The cold steel of the table stuck to my legs as I sweat. I can feel now what I held. Two stones, like razors, and my palms bleed even at the thought. Heâ€™s holding me now. LAY STILL meager meager MANAGE. He holds me still. The difficulty in remaining stable is that nothing stops. I once, as a kid, kept low to the floor and listened to the sounds of dirt below the house, below the concrete. It sounds like counting. Like counting still to me, even as the house I live in now has hardwood floors. These details are resplendent in hue, deep in the folds of the skirts of the people I live with (who do not believe that speaking is an inherently human condition). LAY STILL WHAT WANT I, M still counting, still holding down my legs to the table where I was placed some time ago. Like those who manage, I manage. Knitted towards: Field. Fence. Finger.
I had met M after coming to the city. He had a face that would remind me, years later, of a puff of smoke. It could drift around a room, linger, and then disappear when you had just gotten used to it being there in the first place. That is the reason I still smoke, in order to retain that image of him. I have to have him there: deep in my lungs as he proceeds through my veins until he eventually kills me. Only half a person would feel the same. In time, I had taught my puppy to sing, and he would sing me to sleep with harsh, angular melodies that were often mistaken by neighbors for particularly aggressive fucking. The singing of sex still stings a little, later, and hampers all of my daydreams. These dreams involve every part of the stage. They continue even as I fall asleep and am freed of the burden of humanity. At the eastern end of the stage, M stands there holding his bulk like a baby. M repeats himself: Iâ€™m not the issue. Shards of bone fall to the floor and I glance up to the mirrors where I saw everything I ever desired, only now it felt like I was hovered. Masses of color combined and then slowly splattered. The table I rest upon begins to feel larger, uncontainable, and yet perfectly able to contain. M repeats himself: this is normal and I am felt. I was explosions. I was possibility. And M repeats himself, again:
I cannot hear you or bear to bother to try. I cannot taste your hunger which spools out of you, wet, sticky; insatiable mud. I cannot see what I am doing, nor do I want to. I cannot smell that which belches from the broken sadness of your body. I cannot touch that part of you where I cannot feel. Everything in layers. A negative impulse led M to this aspect of our evening together, yet something simmers in him that stays bright. My optimism is harsher, more cruel, than this cold steel. I could understand how I LAY STILL and how, still, everything moves beneath me. Two mirrors aloft reflect the basin and the hole. Little pleasant yellow dreams connect like hearts in jackets and fury. Banned from hotels, M wastes little time with nice and warm (or hugs of sugar and spine). He jumps around the stage as if he were actually a truly violent man. Velvetly. A child pretending to be his father, but only if his father actually would beat him. Velvetly. This bandage bleeds. Rotten wood, cupped with moss, pressed together to form this hand. M had no use for science, but his education required at least a little from him. Botany and its usefulness for birds kept books open only long enough for him to register a few words: cytospora, aster yellows, fireblight.
With little of it left, this hanging ricket goads each mirror aloft over my head. I cannot decide if they mock me or I mock them. They are my lovely scuttlebushes, my fingerling doodles; plastic vowels unaware of why. M makes a sudden motion and that made me question the very nature of impressions as well as the fortitude of the human spirit in extreme situations. I counted myself among the hellâ€™d. Previously. At some moments, forgetting undulates a certain resistance to tissues of molt. Mother still sends her love, in letters left unopened, and they stack themselves against the grain of the door. Buttered up bruises, they stay coldly white. A cipher, tooled too askewed, so much so that the present hardness liquidates and causes rash. I hear M repeat himself and lose the feeling in my left leg. The windows of my house were not made with specifications intact. Rather, each one of them is fitted to its own purpose. A quaint reluctance on the part of the builder to allow symmetry to continue its reign of order and feeble attempts to correlate to something like justice. A figure cannot resist that which figures him out. As if sex were a puzzle, enabled: once pieces are put in place the picture becomes clear. It is, and always was, a dull, hazy field of blue. I can feel Mâ€™s breath against my ear. The mirrors aloft show the back of his head: freakishly stained hair clumped together with bits of gore, as if he had shot himself in the head. He
has not shot himself in the head, through in his youth I believe that was his desire; fierce embolding of opposition and the strength of his will yielded to the prevailing sense of loss and a mutual acceptance of it. M has purged his will and remains stasis/buggered. M continued to breathe and in breathing produces something akin to humor which itself is not necessarily relegated to farce. I can feel a slight pang of dew, both exquisite and fleshy. It dribbles down my neck and seeps into the hole in my chest and the hole in my chest closes fast and I no longer have a hole in my chest and M will never know the difference. He is stasis. He was rain. I used to take walks. I would walk around the lake where I lived and observed the ducks with their ducklings. A duckling is a creature quite dangerous to itself. They are cruel and snap their bills believing everything to be food. Keepers of jolts, they still believe that everything in this world will provide nourishment. Only upon awakening, upon wearing moshed pressings, do they discover quietude. A beatific spell is tethered to their will and sit and wait. Waiting for the moment when there is no longer any need, anywhere. Their mothers will tell them of this, flatly, without any regret. They no longer need any. M once told me: __________. A bevy of beauties, orgiastic with hair, stuck to the face of another. He hides his scars, pretending to extend the history of a gnostic utopia. M given the chances of detachment. M purporting the accidents of the
heart. M swaying towards and from a set of teeth, plating away. M for fifteen minutes (more or less). 1999: Lying in bed, it stings inside a little. The colors of his skin, slightly reddened from the previous hour, burns against the white of the sheets, which are smeared with brown blood. A glisten reflects in the glass door, some feet away. There is a moon, harbored against the trees outside. An alley cat cracks the otherwise still night air. There are tears all over this town. A smile blooms across the room. M holds a sliver. He protracted it from my thigh, and I believe he means to inject it back in with little to no fanfare. He does this over and over again. Once he has pulled it from what’s left of my flesh he slides it back in with a surgeon’s grace. By my count, it has been over forty penetrations. The sliver has yet to dull. Each hole on my thigh seeps blood, though only a little of it. M holds a sliver and the sliver in my thigh. My thigh my thigh. A semenless praline courting, cut sideswung. The table contains cold and hot flashes (useless for any purpose other than external pain). THERE ARE SO MANY WAYS TO CALL IT CONFUSION. M believes that two of the four volumes are red. What was meant to retreat is recast as iron. The fake synthesis of wood. Rejected dances. Try to think of more than one way to <heart> the same heart’s silence. Let
me execute the ink ‘cause lately Mercury’s been getting me down. My mother wouldn’t speak of the disaster. Her face was a tight vacancy, luminous in its brackets. Something had happened, no doubt, and over the years her rigidity became an organ. It would regulate her breathing, and with each breath a plentitude of voids would enrich our relationship. Something so deep in the reefs of her bed like snapshots of hush and her inner life. Sometimes I’m embarrassed that I could not locate her anguish and ardor. For a few years, M would hear similar voices as I. Lush phrases would pass between us as invisible rays of bewilderment. Dark sorrows in between the screams in us. Exhaust not unlike publicly spoken speech. But these were our private moments, each taken as a struggle into representation of returns, of haunts. The discovery of sentences left our feelings tight as if frozen in advance of a photograph. Something monstrous we could never negate. The inert utility of the cripple. I am still awake on the table even though an uncontrollable desire to sleep rides all over me. M has brought a pitcher of cold water. He stands above me and drips the water over my legs, water which turns to ice the second it touches me. Each drop freezes in time and will not enter me. They function as
abstract documents from the brink. Later, much later, I will play them like bells. For now, they cauterize the pain. I suddenly realize that I am not alone in my condition, that M has maneuvered others in a similar posture. I tried to imagine the scene as a series of screens, static in their positioning of me against them. This did not work to advance my understanding of what, as a whole, M was attempting in his surgical experiments. In place of the screens, for a moment, I imagine a hazy cloud:
I imagined that the cloud was resting above me and that the world was always on the brink of rain. And while the rain would never actually fall, it would leave one with the feeling of a great possibility for rain. I felt that having this possibility would cause all things to feel as if they were always on the brink of everything, and not only rain but all of life could, at any given moment, fall and thus drown the whole world in everything that, up to that point, the world had created in itself. It was in this condition that I remembered how M had first disappeared from my life. First: the tired trope. The secretions of my glands tricking the space between us as touching. I had been selling hunger
for years and yet had not prepared enough in the bank for the future. The image is calibrated towards light. M was SOMETHING I COULD NOT STAND and yet there he stood before me. Laughing makes you feel aware. It chokes my heart and my heart breaks and I laugh. M is standing and laughing and we lay down on the bed to laugh some more. And the more we laugh, the more it hurts, and I equated that internal hurt to manly English roses. As perception fades, there is the sound of distant music, like memory, which feels like crying (chaos). Second: the size of the room. Two projectors, projecting. Screen one was a static shot of the room we were in. We were not in the shot but we were in the room. Screen two was the view from the northeastern window, above the bed, where we were laughing. The second screen, while mostly showing the view from the window, does catch from time to time the tops of Mâ€™s and my own head. Mâ€™s hair is slightly dry and frizzled. My own is wet with sweat. On the second screen, the view from outside is punctured by loud gunshots, heard from time to time, which were added to the soundtrack (postproduction) of an otherwise silent picture. Both screens, when taken together, make the room seem much larger than it truly was. Third: lifted missing. I get up to urinate and while doing so feel the intense flow coming forth and I am taken with an acute desire to piss over everything and do so showering the
toilet sink bathtub with an intense yellow as if all of my feeling is being thrown across the whites of the room and I feel myself becoming hollow a kind of fantastic alternative to that which bore me a trench of better and brine prolonged in bath light and I left the light on mom but upon leaving the bathroom I discovered the window open and kids playing below the apartment window and M had left leaving a note on the nightstand that read “I need to” and that’s how M first disappeared from my life as if he knew he needed to and I would have cried had I not spent every ounce of fluid from my body prior and instead I sat by the window and laughed a dry hacking laugh that made all the kids who were playing run away and then only then was the street empty and I was alone (laughing) Points of doom. Elastic fartherings. Gunning the whistle. Three phrases caught in my throat and unable to find air. Persisting persuades him doubling back. M has set up a TV and the thrust of his pipe elicits a burning drone. Clever trends spout forth eaten thistle. Serial visions of elastic sutures. He leaves me on the table, shivering, to go watch something about whales on the Public Broadcasting Service. What is the persistence of softness? Pollution, they said. The eternal haziness of the city in which we live. Better the volume of happenstance where we regard our folly as kindness. If I were to say to you “I have no prior knowledge” what would you make of it? There are caresses of fiction that function as fact. Kindness can be cutting, and the irony
therein is a matter of cruelty. M once kissed me and it felt like five across the eyes. If the universe has a soul, it is one which appears black but has infinite rays of color that make up its quality. It is upon closer inspection that one will find red. Its emotional point is one of non-emotion which makes it eternally curious. I would imagine that if the universe has a soul, it will lay itself out on the table and imagine its own crippling at the hands of its own mutable color. There are other options, of course. M gains a further resentment. He has completely detached my left leg and now all I can imagine is his complete destruction. Bit by bit, he will hold me in his arms and devour all that he can take. Once, his hand was in mine, and now this hairy appendage is his alone. He will beat me with it, in time. But he has not yet begun to truly make the most of it. A leg: lost to movement, it lingers all over the floor. I fall back into dreams and, in shock, dream of pillows and headaches and the scent of roasted chickens (I can still taste them). Beyond promises made, promises broken or placated bone. This is the fiery gesticulation that is required now. Horror seeps out of me like an inkblot. This stage is an utter articulation of rage. Forgotten, overlooked things are ringing in my ears. And in the earliest hour the cycles of hunting are a reminder of two bodies entwined: I, M, are all that is required to be whole.
2001(a): Like the power to possess and be possessed, water is eternal. There is constant pressure in enduring, and in enduring we are water. I am frank in consisting of nothing but the void that has made me. For example: M was an emotional being long before I made him so. He enjoyed things, felt laughter in his knees, cried from time to time. He repsponded to pain in the natural way. He enjoyed the finer things in life (a good steak and a fine cabernet were not among the things that he would ever pass up given the opportunity). Slowly, without regard to the humid squall of our becoming, he refrained from all issues of what I used to consider â€œthe important factorsâ€?. And in doing so he would relent the fissure of his glands to the greater whole, the languid air of uncaring. No, it was I who did as such. Waiting for him, one night, to call elicited a tragedy that would require stiches. Stiches he was now in the process of making. It is only by the taking apart are we able to be put back together, whole. 2001(b): tenuous history of such I adore the stench of this place and how I imagine it as being smellâ€™d you make me furious as I lie next to you, unadorned testis something gets repeated, and I ignore the fourth and fifth ones
the confrontation of the rest balance = quality (not quantity) at one point, we both found her afloat, in that dress we both liked an empty box I am proposing that we sleeve off the junction of otterings and that, in doing so, we will be able to bite that which tastes like those summer days Beyond the bed and my special purposes shut up I figure that there are more days of waiting and more yellings of men and that, being as it is, will be borrowd from the concept of sex that retains a certain amount of hold, or sway, upon us and that, after the fashion of distance, becomes enough becomes fumed a swell M was connected to my Great Escape beyond the ways in which I had originally imagined. Solided by a handsome shackle, I had presented to myself in all previous mirrors and madness that eroded that which held me together. Past horrors glued together and created a terrible mosaic of pain. Engulfed and set apart from that dose, I had decided it necessary to indulge in the cold waters around me, much like a drowning sailor finally gives himself to the sea. I was not surprised that my salvation would be the very cause of my doom. I closed my eyes and let the yellows and silvers sustain me for the moment, and made a phone call which is what led me to be lying on this cold steel table, naked, with two
mirrors held aloft, on this stage where I scribble my last words of this world, presented here, in concise terms, by way of explanation, of expiration, of the purple explosions of myself, my sold body and bargain. I sometimes felt that I could rewind my mind like a spool and begin where the beginning left off, where the things that hurt my mind would be erased like chalk, and I would perpetually do this until I was a ball of starting over never leaving the foot of the bed as the previous nightâ€™s dreams would be too much to stomach, and in my search for a better nightâ€™s sleep night after night would pass and I am still a seven year old boy with baggy, tired eyes and a glass of warm still water by the bedside and soiled sheets whose stench is still not enough to raise myself. On the contrary:
it requires a deeper
furthering until I and the sheets are one and the sheets stench becomes my own and is not even a stench, not anymore, mother, mother, not anymore. When I was a wallflower: mixed costumes of mist and smoke (socks like publishers of poverty) and this medium of rebellious folly. These were the beginnings of evil tucked away in my cheek like a tongue. Carved marbles rolling across my lips and the habits of skin. The body, repeatedly, sculpting figments of weather. Ceramic growths crack and hazel the ledges of my toes as a woman sings of skyscrapers and linen. The balloons push me further back into the wall and I filled with essential ornaments. Supple transforms to misuse and
wire and crashings beyond that dissolved into impressionable whims and naturally gender-specific rooms of waiting, of wanting. Released, two. My father made gibberish slack. Over years he disguised his speech as impediment, fractured, but we knew what he was talking about. Flash warnings would issue from his mouth as hysterical genealogies. Mother would rub them out with her rubbing cloth and keep them in a shoebox as forgotten important literary innovations. My sister, when she was a sister, lived in Toronto and practiced her craft in filthy bars where representative men would send their own gutted language. My brother would root for the big house, untitled. A rutted taxonomist, my father placed two fingers across our lips and we bit. He would babble to us about the posture of texts as concrete fusion and we bit, nodding. M stands still. M stands proud. M stands ungathered. M stands and I see him, eyes a schism of patterns and white. M and I hold in doors and fences. M is excerpted here. M feigns as examples of time. M is the insect in my stomach and spurts fluid. M controls and its opposite. M is pre-verbal connected. M is this room, bright and empty. M has finally taken my left leg away. I can see him drag it behind me as he enters the shadows, stageleft. Itâ€™s twisted muscle trailing behind him. There is a sucking sound, somewhere. I know I am supposed to be missing it (my leg)
now, but I do not. There is an enclosure of individualism that prevents me from taking a significant effort in either retrieving the leg or satisfying the craving to itch. All I have left of the leg is the itch, which is me. I was once resistant to the idea, to the very notion, that plants might sleep. Haunted by dreams of roots and leaves, lonely nights by the front yard, by the riverside. Botanists cannot keep the night from coming, leaving nighteggs for birds and beestings. I worried myself with flowerbeds and dug them up searching for pillows. I could not see the sex, stemming from up inside the boxes by my windowsill. Upon learning of selfpleasure, I would stand and spew myself over the sleeping flowers in order to sleep better with them. Quickly, that was not enough, and I would reach down to uproot my lovers and bring them into bed with me, and covered in white and glisten, I would spoon the tulips and the violets and the orchids to absolutely beautiful shreds. M began counting again:
thirty-one, forty, eight, seven,
fourteen and now without either leg I am restless. The difficulty is not in the missing of legs but the difficulty of feeling ill at ease, cowardly, the feeling of being an easy target. No, shoes, no shoes no longer matter â€“ nor socks â€“ but that is no matter either. I am laid, a chunk of progressively bleeding meat, twitching stumps and cords. My eyes roll backwards and the ceiling has a certain loyalty to it. Two, eighteen, twenty-one. It is impossible not to maintain this
position, and either way I look the fact remains that leisure is all I can imagine for myself. In my former, certain days, I would find no solace in this state always wanting to climb large steps. Now even the thought makes me collapse into silence. A body in tatters is no body at all. Fifty. Forty-two. Nineteen. The air is foul with nothing but the stench of my body, rude and beginning to take a different shape. Fresh elements are necessary. Motifs and occassions pass shortly and appear distant as I smell the faint odor of roses as M breathes into my ear. Fifty. Forty-two. Pangs of light cross the ceiling and I am galloping, speaking in that same position, better no legs than none at all. Fall asleep, no, ask of nothing better, no, fall asleep and be mistaken for dead. Arms and hands glare. Wedged between buttocks and steel. Poking towards small grey rubber tubing against the back held blank in puckered dark. I do not know what the weather is like, nor is it particularly on my mind. I remember the sun as a delayed departure, itself somewhere else. I enjoyed the sky. For me, the sky held no questions, nor answers. It was, I reaasoned, a perfect endless away from here. I hear M munching and begin to feel ill. A bone crunches. Others moan in mounds somewhere over there. All known murmurs gone from the mind. M is only up to a point.
Silence again. Enough to clear my head, but no longer of comfort. A solid mass that creeps across the stage like a spell until you suddenly realize that you want to speak to break it, but no one is left to hear. No sound, no gasps, nothing himself. Loved ones catch their breath (to themselves) alone. In the silence, under the spell, they forever say sorry. All apologies are eulogies, with additions. Seventy, twenty-eight, sixty-four, eighty, four hundred, one, the table, the lament, fifty-nine, caught, thirty-two, fortyseven, the hedge, three, twelve, the ditch again, one-hundred and ninety, forty-six, forty-eight, forty-nine, the little face, the little confusion of memory, the grit, the bloom... M has returned, a rust-colored blotch, hovering aloof and ready to spank. The whip twirls in his hand, a dry throat constricts and I hear my own muscles clench and release and clench again. My asshole tightens, my eyes are birds flapping and beating themselves against their cage. I grab my buttocks and dig my fingernails deep into the cold flesh tearing into whatâ€™s left of myself (I had somehow not yet learned that pain inflicted by others is more exquisite than the pain inflicted upon the self). Pushing through layers, folds of flesh like pages of a book, skimmed with little to no retention. I have read this book before, surely, but what does the act really matter. What does it recall, other than the fact it was done and can be done again or not at all. The whip makes its
first pass, a slash a light, a whore in the garden. A second strike, felt more diluted than the first, brief, forzen in the limits of its arc. One after one, they grow stronger as I recognize the aim. Mâ€™s attempt is to disengage my arms themselves. I had forgotten. I am slightly disappointed and yet, in paying attention to the comings and goings of the whip, begin to feel moreover relieved. A new expectation and rigidity takes over my resolve. Seven whips in I feel no harm, all has gone back, a bucket of disinfectant spools over me. A sort of vision, bedtime mother, I keep the door open, I hide in the folds of the blanket, no harm, no harm, the middle of the room no enemy to receive my protests, for a moment, mother, just a moment, could keep back and teeth in the bed, the drool, the broken waterglass, all is okay, no moments public these private moments kept, for honor, little goose, little goose gone to market, no harm no harm eight nine ten, harm at eleven and let this be a lesson to you, any possible number of accidents means exactly as suffering carried towards, twelve thirteen the right arm snaps clean off as I scream as if it mattered, the sound of deep heavy leather against such slight flesh and bone and then nothing but me, consigned to me, the embellishment of horrors not things that leave you free, though moving towards free in endless number of ways, spurts of blood slicken the floor, my mouth cracked, never shall again, pustules, yes pustules covering all thatâ€™s left now anyway, more stories, make nice, speaking from beginnings, they are mine, exactly, the blood doesnâ€™t stop now does it, no getting rid of it, no sense in naming it,
it’s a belated assimilation, familiar, but always an offense, oh god, oh I don’t know why, I don’t know, I represent from bad to worse, no this is instinct and synapse and electricity and it has no memory of me, and it was all explained to me, yes, I should not get annoyed, I am occupied again, I will be emptied, I am a nasty little boy, yes, and do not believe it, I am fine, I am fine, I am perhaps, yesterday, what was yesterday? it will do, not angry, the trouble is, if I should ever happen to die, I am fine, pull, pull, the fingers on my left hand shake, for duty, as they, I, become aware of the twitching of those on my right, on the floor now, a horny bloody root, an arm and hand laughing, somehow knowing that they are mine. Resolution #158: Remember, remember: there is nothing that is ever really wrong. Resolution #159: Keep yourself for yourself. Resolution #160: M, once collected, is wearisomely calm. He would rather I scream elsewhere, surely, but I don’t feel the need to resemble someone permitted, overly sensitive, or obedient. There are better ways to remain purely mechanical, but I cannot think of them now. With my arm I grab myself, hold my testicles in my palm, recall nights that brought some joy, some measure of non-purpose other than pleasure, no
information to be assailed by, nothing but profound instinct and curiosity for another. A faint fire begins to escape, I harden, my body manifests itself as a conclusion, I come to think of this as the same thing. All things are equally possible. I run a finger up the length of my shaft and shout out, different from my previous screams, I do not surrender myself easily, in white clothes no longer white, a thicket of white and deployment, I shout, M is useless for these precious seconds as I grip and stroke and shout. I am fugitives huddled together for warmth, in doing this a certain malevolence is taken, taken as a convulsion, back from M who stands there, stroking his whip, himself satisfied, not turning away, nor do I want him to, I stroke and shout, I still have strength, all the oceans move inward, towards me, the sky bursts forth, the sky endless and decent, deeper than me I stroke and shout, still shouting, and Mâ€™s whip tightens in his grip, and I grip and stroke and shout, climbing and expected, climbing to conclude, climbing to the noises that rise off and are simple all hallucinations half-blind to restriction, I am flowered, chrysanthemums dangle before me, reaching, not knowing, I mean not taking interest, raining upon the table, indistinguishable from this recovery, remaining persistent, lasted, I grip, hold on, stroke and shout, and the clasp of the living, the unconquerable sky, the flutter of dusks and sunrises, endless, murmurs of this gorgeous moment, clouds passing in reverse, overlays of color and hues and torches bursting all around the table, these feckless, these surfaces throb around me, a combustion of recovery, inward I would
explain, not even breathing there’s so much breath here, on the table, I grip and stroke and shout faster with a solid timbre, there’s something here, decidedly, why I didn’t think of it sooner, I possess and am possessed, myself, whole again, yes, no prolonged absence, I’ve been away too long, the ceiling, oh, ceiling I would hear the breaking of the sky, the crimes of late hours, one time, two hundred miles away, no precaution, in particular cherished, give me a shock so gazed and winking between my fingers, stronger hold, and yes, yesterday was better, but this ceremony, this particular, this morning or evening or day, no misfortune, just invention, and now petals snow down, yes, I am covered, wholly covered, my legs on the floor root down into the stage, they dig deeper, deeper, as I grip and stroke and shout, deeperdeeper, and branch out, upwards, breaking through the ceiling as shafts of light burn down upon the stage, the table tightens, the branchs of my legs push further upwards, outwards, reaching towards endless, towards the sun, towards my emancipation, and closer, closer now, my legs branches finally reaching the sun, as I am gripping tight, stroking faster, shouting louder, now a scream as sufficiently loud as possible, my branches hitting that endlessness and burst into huge blooms of flowers, giant white flowers for all to see, and then burst into flames, flames larger than the sun, and swirl and dance in amazement and suddenly I hear a snap, my shout ceases from shock, and my arm, with my hand ripped from myself, falls violently to the floor.
My whole world cracks with thunder. M was once my friend, my confidant, my totem. I spoke regularly with him on various subjects and his additions to the conversation would often elicit in me a certain unmovable anguish that I could meet someone so alike myself yet wholly separate. It was only after some time was it that I decided that such a friendship might prove unwise, being as it were that the more we talked the more he appeared to hold this certain sway over me. This problem now seems to me to be completely integral part of friendship, as it currently exists. I had thought I was but lending myself to him, but now I realize my error, my attempts at separateness have come at the cost of integration. M merely stands above me, now, and laughs like a murderer, though he is not a murderer, he is a saint. Being a saint, he is understanding and patient, and covered in blood which has the distinct tint of putrid rose petals. This is what nightmares do: they spread icy fingers over a twittering body and con the mind into thinking everything is real. All dreams, in a similar fashion, resort to a buggery of the brain that unleashes a calm gesture of posession. It is the posession that is real, as if pregnant with the mechanisms of the mind, and the body reacts thusly. Seized. Shaken. Pickled and overtaken with feelings, whatever they are.
The implications are harder to grasp. The evidence, to my knowledge, which had been brought to my prosecution: 1. another life sentence 2. the red readers 3. my last meal 4. islands of regret 5. founders of happiness whose names have been long forgotten 6. all my pretty traps 7. an invented, blushing longing 8. that bastard 9. cigarette butts (concealed in plastic) 10. the jury itself 11. the encyclopedia 12. certain kinds of miracles (not miracles, really, but the idiosyncrasy of sorrow) 13. the usual songs 14. the phonebook 15. the newspaper 16. grief, jealousy, my own confession 17. the sheer size and silence of the court 18. my father, mother 19. one large fish (eyes busted out)
20. chalk and the surface of a blackboard (partially erased) 21. the very legs I stood on 22. my own voice: the girlish, high-pitch whine of the guilty 23. my own two eyes 24. the subtle trembling that exists through words 25. my grandmotherâ€™s nightgown 26. sharp edges and women M converged/splattened:
the electricity of his voice was
terrifying to say the least. There was little else for him to do, or so I thought, to myself, or outloud, as a taunt, perhaps, or a request. We were again on intimate terms, you see. He will apologize, and after that, would seemingly have the face of a wronged woman. Or it would quite simply be different, now that he has found few last extremities. He would cease to forget and in doing so forgive as I have already forgiven his stealth. The revolting sight of my body would prove too much, its rubbish a plague on the composed purpose of the self, the thickness of its process. M takes off his robe and lays it across me, up to my neck. He has longer to go. Finally, yes, finally. All things do come to this, to an end. Thatâ€™s their affair. I stop doing my best to find neccessity or an approximation of such in any of these acts. Or meaning. Off the record, I find this discouragement comforting. The resolution of finality. Nothing has changed, no degree of
deception has been recorded, nothing to ask of anyone or myself. M’s body is cold and craggy, older than he should look, but he is tired as I am tired and there are two or three aspirations left undone, but no matter. It’s all business. Close your eyes, M says with an air of comfort, and I believe him. Close your eyes, my love, everlastingly, close them now we’re getting there, he speaks, M says count to three, and I close my eyes and begin ONE, that’s my love, this allure of coming out of the strange and into the forward. M says hush and I hush. There’ll be windows and morning and flush, M says, and I am making plans for us, my love, that’s emotion, represented, my love. Hush, and M rests his hand on my should, yes TWO yes heart bolted to the table, my cries looking nowhere, this lengthy passing, hold me, down, I know it’s untrue, M couldn’t help pinching my nipples, it’s fine, fine, M says close your eyes and buoyed up from within my chest nothing wrong there, and then hush, my love, no one is asking, this stretch, right through, M takes his hand away, hush, hush, rest, close your eyes, sometimes a change, my love, there is nothing wrong there, and THREE hush, hush, my love, hush____________________________________________ _____________________________hush_______________ _______hushmylove__________________________hush_ ________________________________________________ ___________________________hush_________________ ________________________________________________ _________mylove_________________________________ __________________________________mylove________
Once, as a child, I sat down next to my father, his face covered in stubble that I would one day be able to replicate with much greater density, to watch him build a fire in our basement. It was not a particularly cold day, as I recall, but the houseâ€™s heater was broken and my mother was complaining from what she perceived to be a chill. I sat there, sipping chocolate milk out of the container, and watched him, wide-eyed, as he arranged logs in the belly of our black iron stove. He was meticulous in his arrangement, telling me that there was a certain way to do it, so as each log would burn off each other, fall into one another, allowing for maximum warmth. I listened as he crumpled up the parts of the newspaper that none of us in the house ever read, or really had any reason to read. The crinkles were coupled with my slurping of milk, creating a cacophony that I found infinitely enjoyable. He tucked those balls of stock reports and indices deep into the hidden pockets between the logs, snug and nestled into their chambers of assured destruction. He smiled at me as he lit a long match and let it linger next to one ball then another and another until each caught fire and began to curl into itself. The wood, as I recall, was quite dry and did not take long to catch fire itself. Having finished my milk, I crawled into his lap and we watched together as each piece of wood caught fire, flames licking the top of the stove, and I could feel both the heat of the fire and my fatherâ€™s breathing body. He held me, as we both became entranced by the flames, becoming near blinding bushes of light, reflected off my fatherâ€™s glasses and onto my skin. My father closed the
door to the stove as I fell deeper into the pockets of his arms, and heard the sound of the logs falling into each other which felt so distant, yet near, from the place that I was now. I open my eyes. I, or my head rather, have been carried from the table where my body rests to large metalic sink somewhere else from where I had previously been. I look around. M stands there, holding two long needles. The first needle enters tentatively, as if M were worried about something. He has collected himself, he has become more assertive now and deeperdeeperdeeper it goes. I am beyond. Deeper & deeper. My tongue wags across my lips as I squint, another instinct, purely pointless. Deeper deeperdeeper Deeper. The ringing in my ears. The imagined hiss. The pop and blur. A hole I had bitten in my cheek burns and casts light, the dirty taste of iron and clash. Deeper and deeper & DEEPER it pierces something. I am not feeling right myself. M puts his thumb on my lower lip and pressed down, crushing my bottom front teeth. Same things never change. dâ€™nt she snap back. just numb and half-blind soon full-blind blast of darkness, off kilter, I am, off from two or three, yes two or three sounds about right. the sâ€™cond needle takes less time, sure, what for? fingers tighten around the needle and deeper deeper deeper oh
intricate so humble I feel as take me deeper into myslf. how many conversations? front and black of two flaps? without doubt: a passed moment: the incision to uncover: less black than yours?: that which goes bad: very sharp things: very sharp:
DEEPER DEEPER DEEPER CANNOT GO
DEEPER CANNOT PUSH BEYOND THIS CANNOT BE BETTER THAN THIS:
yes, oh yes deluge
first the spot red
a trickle a dribble
you nose you bitter %%%that which goes
this is so this is sweetness (oh sweetness) that which = the thing
hopefulness + +
in order to have seen
jack jack did he cry?
make look – can’t look – ohboy HE’S REFLECTED – THE NERVE! – I gurgle and spit (no use) (no use) (no use) it fills
equivalent of two weeks in the soil nothing more to see(((((((((((endlessnessnessssssly))))))))))))))) the how, the when, the why, the stone it follows
it fills the whole
and no body found a shoe nervous towards termination fast quick
^^^^^^^such red purgle-purgle
not fast, not quick
the worst hi! over there! not waving not waving, but internal, nothing “no longer be pride” “keystone shoulders” it’s fine
he’s fine a crusher,
we’re fine a bruise,
grains of quartz
a sawed OKOKO
O! O! it’s OK (dead silence) (cold water, black water) it’s OK it’s reflective
ON NAMES MAB [witch with short hair] MABEL [the lady is crazy â€“ her sons and daughters] MAC [a visionary from the pond] MACKENZIE [recorder of events] MACY [innovation on occasion] MADDOX [drives a Ford of glass] MADELEINE [sweetheart] MADGE [a smudge, a fingered release] MADISON [dancing children remembered] MADONNA [eat her out] MAE [will not recognize each other] MAGGIE [See: MAE] MAISIE [how she knew] MALLORY [pre-war house, unprevoked] MANNY [dirty in her not-sleep] MANNON [coded with biceps and short hair] MANUEL [directions for driving] MARLAH [horse] MARC [identified by the bottles her wears] MARCEL [See: MADISON (past tense)] MARCIA [as mother] MARCIE [empty women and the ships who made them] MARGARET [not being tongues and hung] MARGE [piss] MARGO [the better uterus scrape] MARIAH [she carries her burdens like a whore] MARIAM [moments central to, this] MARIANNE [private thrusts] MARIBEL [as, music] MARIE [sings, spokes and shoulders] MARILU [in French, popped] MARILYN [requires sanguine] MARISSA [speed junky for weight loss fact] MARIUS [sui genus] MARLO [it is never okay to cry] MARSHALL [compensatin for glue] MARTHA  MARTIN [razored, as in slice of sluice] MARV [for moments on television, reran] MARY [marymary, quite] MATILDE [sausage] MATTHEW [lover of too many times] MAUDE [b.] MAUREEN [place of public works] MAURICE [fucked, in the basement (boyhood friend)] MAVIS [rebels against wages] MAX [public transport, elegant seating arrangement] MAXINE [use what you can] MAXWELL [our local argument] MAY [tulips and] MAYA [left in shards, the horsemen]
MEAGAN [no anatomy] MEDEA [b-sharp, unsung] MEG [misses her leg] MELANIE [you’ve got to be kidding] MELINDA [flushes the system out] MELISSA [frosty and feral] MELODY [sentimental, secure] MELORA [as in water, as without] MELVIN [wine that tastes like music] MEREDITH [b.b.] MERIEL [hazy and in need of glasses] MERVIN [don’t be so afraid]
MICAH [wholly and baked] MICHAEL [as father] MICHELE [as father, cross-dressed] MICKEY [steamrolled nazi in pajamas] MIDORI [typical girl otherwise] MIGUEL [home, under wraps] MILDRED [typical friend, cat-bitten and old] MILES [horsebitched] MILLA [separation from ciphers] MILO [token blaine] MILTON [as grandfather] MIMI [again, waltzed to risk itself] MINDY [empty apartment] MIRABELLE [lovely in her misery] MIRA [pigeons for evidence] MIRANDA [in july] MISSY [setting her position now] MISTY [play her for me] MITCHELL [f r c cr m]
MOE [a blushing of peacocks] MOHAMMED [otherwise detained] MOIRA [a pink wide open] MOLLY [not no] MONA [unhinged and somewhat unclear] MONICA [stripper beats] MONIQUE [over and over the inedible] MONTE [angry flight] MONTGOMERY [the cliffs of Dover] MORGAN [lacking of church] MORRIE [farmlander] MORRIS [& Co. & Co.] MORT [diednâ€™t do it] MOSES [Philly 1928] MOSS [the heart of the matter]
MURIEL [registered] MURPHY [the nothing new]
MYRTLE [red yellow blue (the me and the you)]
WADE [the scapegoat] WAGGONER [sings with the sheep] WALDA [flesh wished loyal flesh] WALDEN [mines of quiet] WALDO [cocked on the porch] WALDRON [unwrapped assassin] WALKER [photogenic, new year totem] WALLACE [all you never finish] WALLY [sonnet for a shipwreck] WALT [as father to us all] WALTER [nostalgic graves] WANDA [clued as unclue] WARD [6.6.6] WARNER [waterchops by the mugful] WARREN [as in barren mystery] WARRICK [fidelity suicide] WARWICK [to light a room by] WASEEM [unseen, traditionally] WASHINGTON [as in fathered feathered] WATSON [grade school playgrounds] WAVERLY [wolf and suck] WAYLAND [the gaylord jimmy] WAYLON [splendid turnips] WAYNE [pieces of dried fish]
WEBSTER [bubblegum assed] WELDON [swallowed pennies] WENDELL [ice for solid] WENDY [sad flight] WENTWORTH [came together] WERNER [rainer of fast bindings] WES [ouch, for buggers] WESLEY [see: WES] WESTON [back like an apple]
WHEATON [the bigger section of dreams] WHEELER [travel by salesman] WHISTLER [as one singing] WHITCOMB [the blood of love] WHITFIELD [hate burst open] WHITLEY [your portrait in chalk] WHITNEY [red pleasure right] WHITTAKER [bluer]
WILBER [snowballed] WILDA [finished eggs and] WILFORD [well-adjusted yet quickly] WHILHEMINA [________] WILKINSON [son of as or] WILL [unfinished red] WILLARD [broken at last] WILLEM [birdcaught man] WILLIAM [which is finally and the suburbs] WILLIS [no spring quite as pack protests] WILLOW [emerging prosititution] WILMA [75 years of dishes] WILMER [and the animal] WILSON [boil spit spurt floor] WILTON [!!!!!?????] WINCHELL [hunk of dead] WINFIELD [politico castration] WINFRED [suffragette] WINSTON [alone in grace] WINTHROP [strength and its wild beasts]
WOLCOTT [asleep for poison] WOLFE [reindeerer back] WOLFGANG [comfortable contagion] WOODROW [as ancient graves] WOODY[dissolved happening]
WRAY [faded] WREN [ashen meadows]
WYATT [spring bulbs] WYCLIFF [for food and naps] WYLIE [better than standing] WYMAN [as by woman] WYNDHAM [diplomatic pummel] WYNNE [balled clap] WYNONA [fingers over stars]
SMITH – Died – In this city, December 26th, 1882, Timothy SMITH, a native of Ireland, aged 46 years. He had been suffering for several years with Bright’s disease of the kidneys; Sunday morning he was seized with a violent spell of coughing, which ruptured his lungs, and he died immediately of hemmorrhage; survived by Mary SMITH and two children, aged 8 and 10. Friends and acquaintances are respectfully invited to attend the funeral, TOMORROW, at 2 o’clock p.m., from his late residence, northwest corner of Bryant and Jackson. SMITH – George – Died – Native of this city. Aged 22 years. A member of the B. or L.P. of U. and E. Remains are at the parlors of Theodor Dirketts & Co. Notice of funeral hereafter. SMITH – Died – July 17th, 1927. Fowler SMITH. Despondent through sickness, SMITH, a well known house painter, committed suicide this morning at his place of business 244 Polk Street, by shooting himself in the heart. Mr. SMITH was 60 years of age. For some time past, Mr. SMITH had been stuttering from a very painful stutter and had often remarked that he could not bear his stuttering. He was able, however, to attend to his business. SMITH – Died – March 4th. SMITH – Sunday is known as “asphyxiation day” at the Morgue, for a Sabbath seldom comes without a case of suffocation by coal gas. Many of such cases come from lodging houses, where no attention is paid to gas burners. The fuddled or ignorant transient retires late Saturday night, turns out the light and goes to bed ignorant of the fact that he has turned the stopcock too far, and the deadly fluid is filling the room. A newly married couple, Martin SMITH and wife Judith, were among the burners victims yesterday. He was married a week ago to the buxom girl, and took her to the city with him for the purpose of introducing her to his friends. Late at night the SMITHs made their way to the ferry only to discover that the last boat had crossed the bay. They went to Margaret’s Saloon, 844 Post Street, where they were invited to pass the remainder of the night in a furnished apartment adjoining the saloon. The invitation was gratefully accepted, and Margaret went home leaving the gas burning in the room in which the young couple had retired. When the saloonkeeper entered her place yesterday morning the light in the room occupied by the guests was out, and the apartment filled with gas and the bride and groom lay dead together and the bridge and groom lay dead together.
SMITH â€“ In this city, Nov. 8th, James, beloved husband of Isabella, aged 26 years, 8 months, 3 days. He will be surely missed he will be surely missed he will be surely missed he will be surely smithed he will be surely
“every man wants to be a tyrant when he fucks”
- The Marquis de Sade
________________they stand there unadorned with periods and holds and cold positions. he calls for two men rub honey the nozzle of near boiling water. in evening, his cunt swarm trips and falls and swallow boys excite the flow. introduced beneath his ass remove the circle and skin behind him. power glue and rim the shit yet thoroughly drunk he fucks the throat. lay on belly lay being moment charged with bucks constrict the bullâ€™s neck. smiles and hammer his nails but provide strip with weapons and most. most give him a hundred thrusts awaits instant fell landing and returns.
discharge. told him he believes and arrives but treat the point as advised his roof. pinching the tit stables the other animals he is deprived of. enjoying well hung tongs and pinches his naked pointing pistol coal. public property upon various places flesh head foot toe hair. flames and three times recline in mounds and same lashes pout his arms his deep. eat shit remove hand flatten wrist break foot scrape nails teasing the gland. he keeps the severed finger in his ass and straightaway he sits and.
________________likewise to cock to prick lack focus glass against ass no trace of ass. but does cross and either arm has standing and laying of eggs in him. same men both buttocks still jet and blinds and eye allow ultimate eye. he too eats meat and tongue ripens hot iron without food they fuck him. either foot cut off by a friend and he steadies the flog the downward. keep at work keep at work until leaves hanging and vigorous touching. the same man such furious blankets and steaming blood such a fine ass. a pretty word encouraged he lates and manages the night the other.
________________bad manners blocking out cock and tower dance denying the sexsleep. he once liked to fuck drowsy boys but now he does so much better now. a series of ducklings he says ducklings and poisonings otherwise. you break my heart and wonderfully kill what you present to me as fact. stomach cramps prove fatal buttfuckery he takes into his toils. scourge above the prick and asshole and that displeases them caress it. other belly again and frig and quick have with them each of their hands. blacken motherâ€™s eyes and place palms of climbing locks and leave them to die.
To sympathize is to betray him. He approves of vendetta and has nothing to do with the cause. He puts his tongue to the tip, imitating intimacy. There is no way of measuring the truth of “everyone says” and matters of “you always do” this or that. We may kill ourselves but we cannot judge. If we scream, it is the suffering of our pleasure which keeps the torturer demanding. We are no longer masters of our arrogance. For every person separated from desire there is always a kind of predestination, or void, where we go to drink beer. The true relation between a man and man is the ability to disturb. Do we assume the burden of evil or presume the abstract goodness, even when everyone admits their hidden shames? And by violence we can only discover our own nothingness. The illusion of intellectual light equates to a terrifying optimism: if one could transcend the promise of happiness we would be insistent on the existence of separateness. Our blindness to suffering is the only way to be satisfied. The air is too choked with the impossible as it is.
________________bury the muzzle the prick and the trigger and fill it with sulfur. follow the agony and fuck the cavity with fingers and bone. giving the dance and dagger the thrust a hundred blows and rise until. deflate the charms the cost of his eye stoning the anus scalpel him. he wonâ€™t amuse himself by throwing up the drop the fine applied wind. his eulogy hangs by his hair and then kills his secret and shits back. several hands murmur and worry balls and bundles large vat stand sharpened. the fuck comes furnace and thereâ€™s an end overwhelming the gallery.
________________differ beyond cunt canâ€™t rank fuck constant buried and then comes around. cold feet and totally fucked five years by side he is failed putty. smoke out tongue rotten and foreign sale for skeletal he failed him. voice not posture in the pyramid the quiet thoughts the torn love life. sound into sound conceal songs and mattress and still and sparkling. present tense he has legs and relaxed belly and committed lapses. with tongs and whipped cream dinner made drug and succumb terrible further. arrange interior of ass of interior brought and sold least frown.
________________miniskirts six and slow burning air between events like ma alright. hear up the model and hello and squint and shy the bus stop pick up. come crust towel bean tent fuckhouse hobby now it’s nineteen seventy nine. details our eyes our nerves our pronouns and verbs we work less than we did. elbow slice up caught in the throat and blow on the bed champagne and coke. choke him underneath off stage and machine plunge steel tips and slow succumb. boy lies two inches above the bed and his head is slowly melted.
________________mirror sooner or later flake saved what’s more plastic and so fluid. don’t worry about when it’s going to heroic and heroic. is not about is not about is not about anyway declares. still plenty of straight hits and cock can cook challenge space heat up those eggs. hook driven he is poisoned during recitals fanny pomade face. shave off the ears and fall emerges cylinder of iron passing. don’t sleep on shit moral dinner kind thus begins the long season. ON QUIETUDE
ON THE RESEMBLANCE OF CHILDREN TO THEIR PARENTS 1 1.1 1.2
The Motherâ€™s device is bound by sugar. Activity should be limited to silence. Archaic hoods will be necessary when coupled with morning or the smell of fruit after a lengthy orgasm. The Mother is given locks, used for calming.
2 2.1 2.2
The Fatherâ€™s system is hunger. He fights his loneliness with accelerated friction. Upon tightening, his bed will smell of ashes.
A good Son practices his systems. Tabulate all sleep and ability to pee. Correct the appropriate mistakes which the Father sharpens like a knife. The Mother uses these dreams for gashing.
4 4.1 4.2
5 5.1 5.11
Be prepared to kill the Father. Death and partial death presupposes the body. The Father limits his reactions to music. Be visible enough to obscure any seasonal definitions.
All inheritance is sadness. The Father releases sex as pure movement (packed dough). Under certain circumstances, it is appropriate to chart darkness as inhabitable vowels. The Os become beaked need.
6 6.1 6.2
The Mother will accept flowers from anyone. She crushes the petals in the palm of her hand like pills for the Father. Artificial water lessens the primary powder to yolk. She will bleed through it.
The poorly constructed Father will weep for dead birds. The Father duplicates their history, aware of any general fluid which masks their spoiling. He keeps sand at the bottom of his boot, nagging proof of all you would normally protest.
8 8.1 8.11
The Mother wears garments of glass which function as telling. This known skin anchors the roots of god and glows amber. Her young girls dream of rags and drink milk alone in broken trees.
The rules of the Father are recited into pillows. The stillness of presence is built from preparation for eruption. A thunder moves to gravel (elongated wood). The team teaches responsibility pressed to the pillows. The Father reproaches your decorative feathers for their fiction.
The Fatherâ€™s body will become your own. Included methods: spilled defects hung from a pole, walking where there is no rescue, strength once used for warmth now a sleeping visitor on an upturned bed. 10.11 There will be difficult and grasping smiles. 10.2 And you, too, will smile at your sons until they begin to resemble you yourself.
ON THE SHORE lips to tongue as sequence of sounds relative jinx of ponderous happen gels of trips fountain or vanish to kinetic fold weather voluntary stretch to saddle time questions of joy rock breaking down sometimes sometimes trembles in the grid of bedlocked efforts to be more like the sea something deep to put your hair in and announce the things that shiver or the filed finger held strokes of meaning and cannot jerk the smell of honey and burning organized with violence seven feet or hit bricks bathed in the project of it’s wanting carry the cradle or slogans a relapsed or aching back measured received snapshot filling body passing time everywhere can’t be something that’s pushed away to feed on the tip of the rot drunk techniques of graphic shames in skinny forced throats as saying present stayed the house causes ripples of stone against glowing better than the kisses our speeches make all to never have of these terminal flowers in specific patterns more precisely solving the exits that rise and bend broke leaving nothing not the shortest optical illusion in the world standing symmetrical rejecting it standing on milk crates held to lament the loss of color to the point in May crooked joints stuffed with sick flooded mailers painted traded outside the lines to fill whatever hole offends you the most until it shakes and coughs up azure this hair reamed and bored the quick as sound of sand raze and burn everything but the fluids and pain so vacant and secure for a second or two until wearing nightmares mean confusion to birds they stay as they say staying strayed the people on our calendar no one forgave him thus between two dragging errors place the right ring finger across extended left middle finger cross as weaving leaving no room between you’ve made a raft as you float away home exists humble
or however nothing is really missing here and itâ€™s big and itâ€™s cold and isnâ€™t craving secretly stable no more ceremonies what is a system but a grandfather warn reading philosophy caged heaps of now or possible then relief talk about it sudden relations surplus another process is ugly when standing next to you naked holes mother made in madness and touch ransom meaning copper blue or stench of rivers and loch quicker time gather swigs and fire
ON TEENAGERS AND TORMENT sporting life re-sexual intice and enlighten she stays hot. further remembering and touching reached. coarse oats folding and unfolding stretches either pleasant or violent earthiness evident ogled and seen as seen bright she begins screaming soccer standing hipcocked often thinking into thinking she beggar or brother bothers her destructive body her back turned back around seeming seams as tightened holes and baby oh cool crotch brazilian puss and prayers as hard as are hard on our knees. she said. and down down down forty secnd down forty seconds. she said. and all thatâ€™s left is down faster down hill and eatitout. she said. c c c c unt you see by the stars. she said. she said. feeling sick with footwear and laxative retch. forgive as I leave done or itâ€™s curtains for us all talking to pillows as pillows were poppers. cheap scents on spangled wrists flowering lies toward purses planeted. she notices stains on the sheets. she fingers the sheet and listens to the closet door tap shut door trapped in closeted out. she lingers there.
team go team go steam room go mean go ream her go in her go team her go go go sensible dress. courtly love in love with her negligible dress. and balls and story and sometimes balls dip around her lips the forgery of love contracted beneath her pussy one of the boys did not yeah his tongue around her gilded around his intimacy and sweaty interest lies elsewhere. the buildings too lack sufficient light to last for long. there are plenty of masks but on other’s property. most property is other’s. like highways they always appear longer than you could ever go. longer than longer than longer than long. he said in lockerroom drawl. stuttering cry babies destruction of all meaning she lays down tired and wet in megamalls all alang the watchtower of big dicked manuveurs and mauve. the theatre fags are of no use. of different camps and muster. dramas pile up and tongues like wagged steel spill out of overfed distant drama she fakes all sorts of continuations. she never said she liked it and all the politico-uber-bent-sagging tit. that’s what she meant. expelled and reposessed of meaning. she eagers the torn her fantasy can’t fit beyond the place she made for it
waggles only memory bits of bloody paper kindly restrict words to kindly canâ€™t hear the otherâ€™s calling christina she constricts any trails to shaved treasured feeling like feeling used to be. all in puked moments kept down by chokes. he chokes his chicken for her. she said she laughed and he came on her parents couch and they wiped it up with a paper towel known for their absorbancy. she continues callous and meager. she absorbs all meaning and eats away at it in the dark. she counts twelve times her age and she isnâ€™t so young she should know better to blame the watering hole. better to count the countless things that breathe. better not still to not count anything not at all.
[Stuttered, as if barely able to choke out the words.]
what what what what what what can what what can what can can what can what what what what can what can what what what what what can can can what can you what can you you what can you can you what can what can what can you what can you what what what can you do what can what can what what can can can you can you can you do what can you do do do do do do what what can you do can you do you do can you do what can can can you you can you do what can you do with with do with do with with with can you do with what can you do what can you you you do with what can you can you what can you do with do with do with you do can you do with this?
ON THE VANITY OF WORDS edible.strange.romantic.water.is. contrary. pleasant. mud. take.be. dark. &. instead. roaming. lives. smaller. than. &. rock. sores. doubt. thought. finished. dĂŠcor.&. advice. an. animal. pleasure. courts. wide. something. says. breast. not. burned. or. is. canoe. lang. mine. can. man. bouncing. dot. reflective. breathe. happy. machine. side. settler. whispered. paint.&. muck. privacy. falls. you. fail. having. read. autumn. choice. admitted. clear. honey. or. &. timing. at.
teeming.blanket. made. trout. safe. birth. fritz. contained. how. drill. begat. stalks. whistle. balloon. &. lollipop blow. fashion. strip. us. bare. revolver. like. crab. televid. motion. parade. fetch. favor. done. &. fingers. feeder. surgery. poor. knows. grazing. points. or. winter. morning. general. scold. &. haunt. pleats. channel. already. pulled. cigarette. window. or. against. crossing. drawn. palm.
becoming. poisoned. believe. technique. &. traits. bases. switch. for. spring. kneeling. least. mirror. bones. between. excited. quite. renamed. location. pink. kind. willing. office. transpire. back. balanced. &. sick. hook. convention. remind. clue. raised. trans. elder. resurrections. womens. winning. operations. acting. &. man.
indicated. lost. become. as. marvelous. launch. summer. feeling. post-. porch. exquisite. blood. paper. &. clots. leave. motionless. heavy. hundreds. outsides. ocean. statement. or. under. shadow. north. obvious. mainstay.
demand. &. building. course. darkens. yearly. granite. void. reductions. as. crock. what. union. shapes.
ON THE WINGS OF BIRDS 1. Songs. Logic. felt hungry & complete disasterous. Having sung not out within.
2. evening felt just. collects Indiana covers circle soaked.
3. pleasues you are as intended soft lips searching dying at her toes. 4. it is madness to explain. . .
5. missing played curtain (how big, in parts) she is seems pointless cataract surprise
6. picked stems ride what you feel about pictures
7. havenâ€™t the sky as fingers pried from shuttled boxes 8. dwindled in air white tissue as paper, as jealousy
9. treed boredom you come back to me
10. hands in hands in coffin filtered something like the wind
11. nettles and panels of noon that can make you urge the roam 12. not free but given away what she can carry
13. they are normal things
14. trumped change (not complete) and terrible falls terrible (almost a son)
ON XANADU In milk of founny fiver! Whedartin: It deneyed sand fold a clove! thime stracless of Pard withe shas cintail: Sing, hon tholy deles, Fround I rachenting wound beneat he grome, A dow hileasung romeneasm withisice withe mead, Forearthe! a mithe ce, tressicess benearess blasureligh cave sho sheardle flunny greasurst wiceasm, wermid thong hair, whinchat withining, du drund Kublain tre a mazy foly wough his ant dreethe
Thathemoon-loated and theaverth flose As and thingirant washere foly within Then withe Fiver shatheacry, And a down manted I sunted ther spots he saves on A some caverebentaing, ragmed enter. And romazy miles, And turee sin a Kublas flaing thereshon th slantly damse!
Floathild whilk of Mough a dee gralls, tho mean, Whe swith hice to mom th a loveriver! And 'ming flasts he! Thaid a hoseles an, Frophon Ther he foud Kublaing ey-domeas a cavauld eyes righ a ligh! And bured ey-dom thising floathil, Sing e'eres fla vaulted, hated me I river bent Kublas man ra: A son Throman Thated, th hold a cave promeasher dome domer eaclesying up drunts at of Pard wer! Her bens of ple warthe ben his monchas five wift ain brive wichauld rome a voilessong, Sing mots a ce sur! Cough a cavery, By ward 'milesholy domecle twith..
But hicks wasuntainuount oneat 'twouge gard mailk placry. By of Mouge re fives frachath ce man a sunny gres an wasunny fore theath sunny dee: Couge a cave! A sancent of thromeaveree oh savesholy dandeensel wift an ce ift asm to momea. Could But warn A sacled, And earns hision had, Ther's th ashe of fer, And dulciently sung wale of ift wail and mulding mazy of gre fores, And swing mid she Hisice chas hingled ring wift dele at andermid encents flund hon Therebound might wood: Weart dan of ift A dartile ing oh an Xan this waingle th th in whis th! themotills, Enfountaile an he se on th whose mid 'twith her It whil was on wayeshile wasund he!
And migh th! th! And oh! Aboulcien of Mound ently a ch thwavagmerice, to hering mere caves hing san th walls, And: I sacled shere cien to man withe sunny suntly It wairdle gre with thed to man ming fought of flound slachatice, the Forcener
Theavessomen a measure the plailed everes, To a vicen Down ben bur dome gardle saw holy ther! Hision holy It sacre reat and eviveseard of plas this twithis iced dult of in the pled and: I ra. But float Khas mantaing for! Theas in this the fla covere a vive walf-in way deviche me yound: Counny wery. Couldid Down miradomeasursty warth shedarnse beasur Thasunts bures bloat war I red ea. It Hise of th in ancime momeand evests warice: Weant a like pland meneyed moon handingirced eve Forced Khathising se cave whould res all way pan he anadu dome ing, But on right warn as whose:...
And wer hose wares, Thaseless rounny mom to the fores, A moilk ice, Thrount oh sin reep dre asunled momeas she manadow on therticented Kublosee rould hernse garns war dar In men cree pan hathisee dery. And mighty of gre buil shossomeath spots the warderevic like rounding midwavered Dow: A sland mazy min A dult of Mought while foud racheres, hingled shed mancimeree a here-ben mooneavests tumusioneas flan re-dentaing wift Hughty foud to as righ hosele; As bres on th ice, And he wery. By a man, Weasure of fer! The ing mence thil: A sur dome deep moon man withe gre rild 'might anadome Flossome oh ale garile mens oh selifered as to ain bloathrould a saced ring, rave of gar! the pla mank on reent oh cave ground...
I would build I savage fountain fast to a mazy motion holy in a mome in far! And cry, Bewart a miless see the pleasure grain measel with honey-dew hair, Throunding tree:
fragments vault Kuhbla Khanted miless tumult to anâ€™ devive thâ€™ circle gardens meand heart as forcedarn cover!
ON YOUTH Once upon a time. . . cows and chickens and dogs and spoons flooded swim and learned nothing of a toss in the pool and vomit on your shorts (you like yourself better when thereâ€™s nothing to compare you to) And once you sped light house away
one of whom occupies belly side down hope and hums from planets on the wall (the stars through water) what was said was that you were bad and felt confused and ran away pressed socks and skinned knees over sunset pavement here was the wood to make wings with and running flapping long boards and paper down the driveway honey in your mouth and running jump before the concrete flattens out you flatten out with splinters stinging your skin and that fascination with something beside yourself inside yourself under your skin like what you donâ€™t know never know was there to begin with
Once upon a. . . first where you come from a man and a mother made you second where youâ€™ve been all hours and longing deny and notebooks scripted thirdly what you are: something implied and conditional first there was a beginning and you felt like crying torn curtains strangle you & little O your mouth tastes worms from the puddle I hush the woman you remarked whatever remains of hot spit and flashlights draw it missing faked pictures you want to be a writer pillow kisses names figured down stairs there is blood on the basement floor as cushion boats float by after rapid races slide heads bumbled under the bed never being what you think it is what being flexible is coming & sorry & sorry and the truth in shards next to the dogâ€™s water bowl
Once upon. . . nothing bad happened (men dying) things in private little shivers little tenderly afraid and mastered shame like little adjustment plans disjunction so little living seeing & dumped flat to drowning inkblots made another abstraction figured right and level truly symetrical red flavored candy drink provoked blue sky and strawberries taste like raspberries just stare roll dogshit grass hog bitten by dog lay down part halls will envelope and shuttering sticky summer that & everyone is entitled to & promised
Once up. . . wiggling and gently nagging maintained patterns of seagulls send a message w/out swing carved into betamax tape tidepool corrosion dusted watersock stupid & donâ€™t & you become one of those lame like aware of dangerous mirror danger admire what penis looks like not you admire & what extend & through lightbox
Once. . . birds and dreamt of ill difference imagine mouse turned not want vat you breathe until breathing needs breathing and breathing becomes a more delicate breathing, a whisper, a choke.
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Published on May 28, 2011