Today. You are woman, generally speaking. You’ll feel a scratch on your cheek, sitting atop a series of blue cushions. I’ll whisper plagiarisms into your tiny ears as you dust the cat hairs off of your soft lap. “I’m going to eat grey caviar. We’ll wolf it down. It’s silly to think that things matter.” I recall Dali writing about a pair of tight leather shoes that he likes to wear during public lecture due to the exuberance the painful squeeze gives to his speaking. I guess that’s one of the reasons why I perform in heels, though Lavender suggests we do it to be closer to God.
All was madness. We sit without opposition. I ask in the everything her preferred method of ‘the pure’ and she smiles phosphorescently, “I need someone.” We are writing, but also erasing everything. She plugs my motives. We write poisonously and think the same. I see only that.
The lock on the door clicks; she, without nourishment, “I fear society,” a gentle lady, widow of savagery, petty cockade of womanness pinned upon his brow only to be infected by a hairpin. “Oh do something wrong! Oh we can go through it!” she utters. Unbuttons the underscore… The sun rises and you know it does! We do something wrong. It was not because of any rigorous analysis of content, but just because he knew. Where chivalry is no more useful than the absence of her slip. You keep thinking about fucking, though perfectly calm herself. I go Dionysus on her, I am naturally drawn to it; cue the oncoming storm. “It’s why I guess I’m bored and indeterminate and a puddle of metaphors,” – Nietzsche (or something). “I am unaware of pain.” The nuances underneath his lack or failure.
Her, to the dogs, “you have better a reason for this action,” and throws it like a voice. “Throw it to the dogs.” She didn’t learn to destroy, nor to live in a perfumed room, it was just natural for her. She says “Of course I partitioned a tomb, here’s the cut: my side is bigger because I will have a larger afterlife, get it?” Sometimes I am quiet; now is one of them.
So goodbye to clarity, “I don’t know,” or maybe, “I’m not sure.”
She, “Oh I don’t understand anything,” or “I understand nothing,” of course.
She leaves a scratch on my thighs. She kisses me as she lifts a glass from the bedside and hurls it across the room. It smashes into infinite pieces and glitters the floor with a silvery dust. If only we could be so fragile! She sweating beside me, teetering in and out of that retention, rotating with her preferred method of a spell, usually at the helm of the universe.
She says, “all men are in a lapse…”
I can hardly disagree.
She claims, “a denial of true answers upsets me.”
“But an answer can be so many things,” I retaliate.
“I am lonely, I fear existence.”
“Not in public!”
“I’m not IN public.”
I am glad she notices. The season of metaphors and the Idea called Music; he fell silent. Often in an instant I cross over into the darkside and then onto that final threshold: blood. The mind is really nothing without it, too pure, too clear… And clarity is often selfishness, personal selfishness, personal selfishness, personal selfishness.
“All selfishness! All masturbating! Pure penetration!… her words reverberating every pulse of atrial contraction! The taste of heme, lingering, burning through the bitterness of anticipation! Spewing into last night, yesterday, eyes closed, heart open…”
*I want your freedom all to myself.
…and of Lunacy!! It’s just not in the numbers, it’s in the mind! The most beautiful of subjects, it should be treated in verse exclusively. The journals of others, residing outside of this festival of language. The kind of sexual intercourse found in a book, or worse, a film, actors in the very hour of nausea (and a promise of a particular kind). Afterward he torches the journals. Weeping atwixt every syllable. The violences of the ink. I said to madness, “I got my period.” Not just becoming a girl, but a real woman wearing pants.
Life is just absolutely what it is.
We know what you and I are like and what she and he are like.
He lies with me here in my vice, with the same harsh answer, “Yes.” Assembling a purpose out of the wreckage in the perfect purity of letters, we would be poisoned though, without Organs, what’s up my skirt, hers once.
Clara lacks her holes; I should have.
From her throat. I cried in the fullness of exaltation. He laughs at how quick we get drunk… quick. Emma opens your journal and pisses on your perfect handwriting. What a beautiful voice! She never sins. There is to most, not a dance of fact when you find no meaning in sinning. The universe is unchanged. No one room with a purpose. Once risen, I ask her, “where to put disorder?” Alexander exits, he laughs at us. I’m in his mind, which is all I could ever ask of him, the daughter in polyester. Parents were novices, most are, most hideous, the point is, it doesn’t matter…
His lips with her holes. She nearly starved. Lived by writing, not reason. Habits of disease and uncertainty. She came with the infection, and was to infect others. She was able only to cry, so after all other options, I masturbated to her tears. ALEXANDER. “I want nothing in an ocean of life.” I hide the palm. “I’m not something,” he snarls with his filthy hands. Also rattles off quite a defense of self-starvation: asceticism, celibacy, anorexia, but she is a science… I’ll briefly explain. I say you are straightening our marriage. She allows for affection. I will notice. I want to. I am aroused, but this is a story anyway… firm, but she drops a vagueness into our drinks, gin, mixed with a generic truth.
“There!” said Sonia. “He really exists,” they would get through life too quickly; slashes wrists. I wake and exchange clothes and recall the room as having never been pure, never before, and certainly not anymore, traces of germs on everything. Helen huddled over us, “you just learn to live in the flesh, there’s really no other way.” She packs up again. I’ve got to come to some conclusion on shame and Perfection.
Alexander’s poems of young lovers. The pretty boy from Iowa, dancing and glowing and shocking us all into awareness of his perfect skin, bathed by the bright lights of the dance floor. Alexander, dancing with the boy who looks like a girl. Even looks like the girl who looks like a boy who looks like a girl.
Elsewhere, Darin speaks with his teeth, “Never!” Alexander, always so soft and charming, “honey, don’t speak in the negative, ok? …or rather, could you please speak IN the positive?” Everything occurs as if all was able. Even dunks his dick in my purse. We hurt each other, no victim. I believe in endurance. I’m prone to believe in magic, but it takes a magician. Connections, you know? The ways in which people interact, games of trust, but you can always burn a bridge. And If you can’t aspire to greatness, what can you do? “What would I want from greatness?” he retorts. Lately, I’ve accustomed myself to wanting absolutely nothing. Barely anything. Or, If you dress like a thief, you better not steal.
I tie him up so I can get away. (This is fair, right?) Sonia looking at her like a small bruise. Led me out onto the thinnest branches, threat of descending far down below. “How do I get down from here?” Or, “I’m not sure of my body,” is anyone, ever… Til inundation, she is everything, hanging around with an infection. Charming young girls and instruction-less sex. It’s the criminal in him. A moment later she says, “I’m an electric shock!” She squats over there, no knowledge, no children, or eggs, or untarnished love. No children; It is redundant.
“I’m ovulating.” I know. Grief is useless
“Am I not at fault?” he squeals with his riches. He used to be a bed wetter, clear into his twenties, then ‘something’ happened, and he never wet again. No shame in the casualness, we are prickly, he, “indeed”. Emma seems pleased. We previously had no time. She asked if we were happy here in the filth. He stands on his knees, sticks his ‘let’s fuck’ face through the confessional. It is a sin to confess. Emma laughing uncontrollably, crossing the terrain with no children, arousing the Devil. Asks me to pray as if I count on the Gods. Never question a coronach. He continues to interpret. I certainly want so many things. “Most magnificent,” I bury myself in extreme people one way or another.
I brainstorm with her holes. No shame in the panic of guilt and sobriety, some beers and again achieving a temporary fuck, she sits silently as if by matter of chance, but late last night, I lay there, comfortable, with her hand in my hard to explain. I am ashamed of my cut thighs. She says he’s so gorgeous in front of that knife, left a fantastic scratch on the sofa. Her, “I could, just can’t.”
“It’s alright,” I said to no one, but just as the conversation ended, another began…
Together for seven minutes.
Their houses were robbed of their sacred books.
We are in the company of thieves and blasphemers.
In spite of the devil.
The fanciful ghosts of ruined virgins,
when her lover shampoos her
bewitching young sinners
generic fornication and pagan authors
she is nervous of our secret
some lady weeping
“grow a dick,” he says… exactly.
He is from a gentle blood, he smells like a block of wood. He was first beat at four, “poor child,” her face suggests. Crying out of the backdoor. So I turned my fantasies outward. The plague-master’s cabin. The history of striking your children. Precisely as close to the end of our alcoholic poisoning, and soon to vomit; I hate waiting. How could it have, it left an ochre on the evening. “Oh I don’t recall…” …and she unbuckles my God, I should work harder, our wrists tied together. She is cruel, flesh-like. But what is dormant dies, escapes. Spent the day with Nadja, who is definitely not afraid to fight fear for I am not ready today, and extremely hetero, but I enjoy the cuts from her from last night. She sent me home in a taxi. A taxi picks up one person, then another, so attracted to the repetition. But the definition is in the detail. What are you writing? “I am trying out lying with my true work.” Silence worth watching. What are you writing? The preface to an unreadable novel. Dirt under the painted nail.
I am washing my hands, never washing my hands, leaving a bloodstain in between never and always. Friend says, “come with me to the light”, to which I respond, “I have to use the bathroom.” Once in the bathroom, I vanish into the mirror, never to see the light again.
Can’t assimilate. Saran wrap knife to chest. Cut around arm, try and remove. Elvis receiving a whipping in Jailhouse Rock. Mic the throat, the anus. Tie foot to ceiling, cut self down. High heels on the fire escape. The Catholic seminary soccer team, “even when we lose, we win.” The neurology of failure. Listening to Satan’s Organ. The Vampire Composer. How you see yourself. How others see you. Right now it’s all theater. THE STANLEY BLADE, and the same stunts, and the same words taken to the laundry mat. The information doesn’t matter. The story doesn’t matter.
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.
You’ll feel your misogyny, somehow… it’s surfaces. Somewhere between. I will never cease to be not sure.
She forewarns, “only write when you’re depressed, it’s gonna be a miserable tome,” as if to niggle with my stack of sadness. He sticks his hand into his own ass in some delirious auto-biographical gesture. “I don’t trust you,” she mutters. “You think my scars resemble the dark,” I defensively reply. She turns around and winks at another male. I curl up behind my color and wish I wish I wonder if you could… This everything follows everything follows everything.
Nothing becoming my master, (cue the most incredible pause). Words plague my entire reality. I often imagine reading, but what is ever so pleasurable? He had mastered the reigns herself. I am thinking of biological female authors. It is silly to be picky.