V Manuscript

species of literature

Month: January, 2012


video by M.armstrong

TEXT from 10/30/11 and 12/17/11

3. HELL (10/30/11)

I was simply that. “I have memories, not problems,” she suggests. She’s nibbling on me. Already, with a kiss and her perfect handwriting, “I am forgetting forever,” wiggling about loosely clothed, her ankle so often bruised against the bedframe. Queer how much isn’t perfect. Heart’s hung like “listen, I enjoyed going along with you, but it’s confusing to express in the dark what only a madman can, in a Homer’s epic, circling, stumbling, kissing booth in the brothel, hard to notice anyone unfixed, gliding into her vortex of uncertainty.” HELL is tonight. All history IS, as we are prepared for another incident. Flirting with all of its stale routine, it is only a needle through a lucidity before us. We meet as females for the moment. She smirks, “I’m not waltzing about without projection in a body and then off the cliffs, under the guise of this aureate insanity!” (I share a firm suffering with Sybil, and I heard she chose to crawl back into her perfect ocean: absolution.) Might lead us to the light from inside a cave, leave us ladies, standing here so well, here between the machines and the male Eagerness. And as Truth comes to look at it, imprecise, the boys continue to imitate fucking. A spectacle of Men, whose evenings are racing about young girls; I am thinking of righteousness and stimulation. HELL is un-straight, open, un-limited, with the feminine ability to find the mirror. “What does not understand you,”… (assumes the worst). I envisage her here in front of me in the dark crimson, but she wasn’t. There is a way to find reassurance, but you are so often being a book, storing information far away for later use, maybe. You are multiple people without this labyrinth. You are racing depression, that’s an empty glass. I’m lost and bad here, punishing myself, housed under my holes aching to find a wonderful idea, so much that I trample myself in a fit of self discovery, like an aphrodisiac amongst an affliction, or an antigen in a nightmare. Such an entirely comfortable collection of light. She is infinite. Puts her complexity out front, her best face forward. She perfumes, again with the clean, pale blue stench of life, an instrument as dangerous as any, prompts us to ponder mass suicide, share another kiss, another touch. I’m reaching, but as a woman. I’m definitely not candid, unusually. What’s in the books?, “drooling over my subconscious for being so pretty last night,” reads the journal. I thought about it. The girls begin again, aiming their machinic usefulness; she yells, “slim chance you’ll ever glimpse so powerful a notion of my consciousness,” I know I cannot even incorrectly imagine it. Friend says, “If I could just decipher what I watch her do, I will know what she thinks.” Men are fools. Here, the boys are trained in the jargon of absolutes: disillusionment! I certainly want you to know more, oh but a boy! I drink to so many things, I share this grave with many. Balanced in the sake of woman as usual, unaffected by poetry, crossing my master. “I can’t watch, I am close to discover!” glowing within her perfect journey, I had his blood, vibrating gently back and forth, and to kiss for a final moment as a man. There is anatomy, or lack there of, enough to go around. She taunts, “I want to dress you up like a woman,” and he attempts to focus on something else besides her focus on his hysterical virgin body. To escape the most gorgeous of nauseas! I was younger, forcing you somewhere between the unaware, for awhile within literature. It is infinite, endless, like “true” love. She, “I wish for something else,” it’s apeirophobia, the fear of infinity. I don’t stop writing. Begin again tonight. Push the straight pin through my flesh, again and again and again. “Hell is inferior to repetition”, cursed to the teeth, a splash of blood. Even the flow of femininity, a splish rather, a constant, in the panic of creation, through the dark coarse chamber, knocking about with intensive ticking and tapping, a threnody of cyclic chirrups hammering out the absolute, a flood of color, a kind never seen before, the monochromatic path. When a man confesses unresistingly his nothingness, and the word plagues my private journal. She picks up the Talmud .. also makes me very turned on. Such entirely adulterous thoughts of mine. Met her in my hallucination, it’s where we are, really. I’m in my head, against her wish; physically fell on the mirror, “you know, you think love is sickness,” but no, it’s a cocoon, an emergency. I’m so lost in the human irrelevance, posing for a novel; so unyieldingly natural, so things matter. I am becoming my mask. ‘Androgynous’? I’m seeing double everywhere. Like Nietzsche the poet, contradicts himself. In a flare of disagreement within myself. Emma flows freely, trying to see now that she is the most female, most comfortable amongst them; they slap against her beautiful smile, she’s touched most of them like gum drops, she out smarts him, all of them. She kisses me, I turn female, back to male. Wiggling about the evening, but a knife on the floor suggests a relief; everyone laughing. I am crawling and continuing to decay, which isn’t shocking anymore. It is to herself (another character) in my quiet condition. Sina calls to see you in the shaving chair, and just as a sound responds to a burn, he proceeds to neuter, disintegrate every sense of our memory, our desire. To shave, it’s not quite unlike purity and whatnot. Sina gives into the tangle with a series of bowls, brushes. I dipped my hand into my pocket and felt the fibrousness of the inner lining which allowed our conversation a physicality it had previously lacked. I then commented, “Pleasure, my friend, is not an instrument or a tool, but a circumstance, a discernment rather.” Keep biting my wrist, like to look at the red circle the following day. Pain triggers sensory neurons to produce a signal, races along the neuron’s axon fiber, passes up the spinal cord by jumping across a synapse to a motor neuron which makes the muscles contract, alerting you to pull away from the source of pain. “Glimmer last night of pleasure; slipped away.” Cried tonight; continued to read her journals. I’ve got to try that, write a novel. Love and suicide, various things.

((NOW)) (12/17/11)

Friend says, “life seems like writing”. Truth nowhere to be found like shame under the gaze of a perfect lover. (She hangs there, in my memory, necklace balancing on her collarbone, we’re pushing each other away, magnets at the wrong poles. “I hear what remains quiet,” he holds darkness.) I drown in darkness. Oh but to see it.

There is a lack of family. There is a jealous discomfort, absence of structure, rules, math… Gimme a number 2, two rooms, still screaming, hair splayed out on the night table, bedside, something to do with a fabric rippling outward catching wind, movement: there is your suffering. It starts with the death dreams, and it is dreadful. A World begins with traditions. Soon to follow: hand to hand combat, a celestial guide, and odious Truth. I want to stay ignorant, ripping meat for an alchemy. ‘Pure’ science like a perfect loneliness. She feels transparent, and I fight the fear of pain. I let depression and elation bathe me as endpoints as I soak in the inbetween. Set for a minute. Can’t levitate any longer. White soap on the Forms, they’re cleaned, ready for rest. Do they sleep? They seem to and yet Micah says, “you’re really still seeking.” Me(His body after an hour ago): I sleep like a feminism. Crashing into love and hatred is an anonymous anyone. The Eternal Return of a chimerical composition of lyric and chord (an imaginary symphony) with diagonal folds of sound and the fatal rendezvous all hammered out like skipping stones from the Gods. The Ritornello, the refrain from a rondo, cycles of depression and madness adorned and embossed with joy and frenetic felicity. Towels off, wipes his ass, “Fill my skirt like a woman,” every method of anger or embarrassment, wonder how relationships develop, who can’t breathe, silver effortlessly hanging around her neckline and cramping the masquerade.

I get through the night’s perfect surmise unharmed, but I do keep thinking about her. Lust is attracted to time. I can tell her thoughts are genuine, but not exactly graspable, like a photograph of a taste. I never remember, mostly never attracted to interpretation. Sometimes I am in reverse. “Hell is flirting with each other”, hairs tied together, almost invisible. I absolve everyone of blame when I injure myself. Breathe, inhale, charge air with life, but the darkness, oh so latent here, debilitating. The expanse of life seems so limitless, so infinite, yet so often limited to the hetero drinking of the gauntlet. It is surfacing, oh so sure you should enter? But scared of war?, “a man,” she utters, and women generally speaking.

Nothing here but a mobile army of togetherness, a pair of me. She, “I’m not footing about evading poetry on purpose,” a sacred melody of femininity. Usually, at that exact moment, he utters blasphemies… I’ve been watching her heels and somehow it has nothing to do with poetry.I’m just a foolish girl.

There is the execution of One’s Own: you will become selfish, all access without a mediator, head off into danger, sin, without a hopeful promise of this grave. I fall routinely into bliss, whether or not I now deserve it. Something about the spectrum, the unreachable extremes… but there is a true limit to this light; there is darkness. As I tell her everything, her mouth tightens; the depth of Rimbaud in the wild era, who is her lady. Excuse me, I thought you were someone else’s. Something or anything… though Lavender suggests we do not fear consequence. “So goodbye to the passions; everything was so horrible and poetic.” And I was just walking around for a few thousand years. She picks up a book and curls into the bedsheet. I scribble into the journals what’s left of my recollection. I am aware of her invisibility, or the phone, waiting on the floor. My evening’s memory is revisionist, all thoughts scatter to become nothing with any semblance of self or loss. She wants to know if I plan on sharing her secrets with others, or am I just interested in scrawling them down in my notebook. Why would I tell anyone else; all the crowd soon enough. The secrets of love .


V MANUSCRIPT (Eli of humanbeast, male submission, our lady..etc) nine songs of Organ for performance. Repetitive, alluring, dark.
Poetic Violence and the Androgynous Mind.
“the cruelty in his luster, the charming fable of her vileness, ‘ENJOY THE CONTAGION!’ i cried…, and fell silent.”
“I’m so lost in the human irrelevance, posing for a novel. So unyieldingly natural, so things matter.”





photos by Maralie Armstrong, Tabitha Piseno, Jori Ketten, Minkyoung Kim and V Manuscript



@puffers pvd

video by Glenna Van Nostrand