V Manuscript

species of literature

Category: writing


~ personal hero/ine, angel-cobra and blood-sister Trisha Low interviewed V Manuscript in her series for the Harriet blog/Poetry Foundation ~


V Manuscript

V Manuscript

new poems in TROUBLE book

16 new poems from upcoming series printed in TROUBLE book from DMNS press (Xander Marro)

in her words/artists/writers featured: As part two of a book series that presents thematic collections of writing/pictures by visual artists/musicians/performers/people who have some affiliation with a broad and vaguely defined “world of art”, Xander presents: Trouble. It’s either a book about finding trouble, or being trouble, or getting out of it all somehow. Contributors include some of the best troublemakers Rhode Island (or it’s nearby environs) have to offer: Mike Leslie, Annapurna Himel Wagner, Katrina Salander Clark, Matthew Derby, Mark Baumer, Mike Taylor, Rachel Lewallen, Tom Bubul, Heather Benjamin, Lisa Carver, Matthew Lawrence, V Manuscript, Jamie Lowe, Mimi Chrzanowski, Daniel Daley, Mary-Kim Arnold, Bert Crenca, Suzy Gonzelez, Rudy Cheeks, Mickey Zacchilli.

order here



Vi Khi Nao (of Per Second Press) wrote an incredibly accurate and flattering review of ARGOT OF INSCRIPTION [posted below]

You can see Vi’s own writing at Per Second Press


Review of V Manuscript’s Argot of Inscription: The Madness of the Canary II. Second House

(limited edition of 200) This book arrives to me in the semi-bleeding heat of desert Nevada on a Wednesday evening. It has flown through the invisible, atmospheric spine of the Sky. It’s a Providence product, bloodily published by VILE_TYPE + NEGATIVE PRESS. My edition is #85.

What I find most remarkable about this book is its statuary language. You expect language to be linear, to make sense on a predictable, rational level. However, this thing of beauty, the fifth dimension beauty, a linguistic sculpture, is filled with bright maxims and wisdom, scaling and descaling our subconscious with human-machine hybrid substances, some invented in the moment to exercise the breadth of our linguistic, automated potential. We should be confused throughout the reading as to whether V Manuscript’s manuscript has been written by a machine or a human or a combo of the two. We expect language to make sense as a rational, traditional structure, on a level we can pinpoint and feel safe. A haven where we won’t be molested or pornographed by the possibility of linguistic re-sequencing and sequencing. Reading this informal novella, one feels that V Manuscript flirts with all the possible dimensions of our hidden, semantic vortexes. And, of course, when the cosmic voice speaks, with an asterisk by it, “*I want your freedom all to myself,” (p.7), you think this sentence makes sense because of its ontological simplicity, concealing the irony within itself for itself while still providing persecuted, oppressed pleasure to an ubiquitous audience who reads. But perhaps it’s the lips of a machine-made substance that produces vocal cords from a place where language should and could exist. Once in a while, the omnipresent narrator reminds the ubiquitous world it has created to do the following task – “Breathe pussy.” As if it hasn’t been breathing on page 21. Or when, without a doubt, when a particular, demi-protagonist titled ‘menstruation’s groveling meows’ exclaims, ‘mother suffered,’ we sense that a protagonist could be a vowel or a sound or a series of sounds. Once in a while, in the midst of all of this, the narrator assaults our human sublimity with wise sayings from the void, “Never copy a mirror,” (p. 33) or “You can always learn more, yet time is expensive,” (p. 20) or “What is poetry but a dance of planned insults to nature?” (p. 15). And we believe this kind of wisdom because it tailors to our practical tasks and lives. After all, we breathe and we should eat and fuck. Whether we are a machine or not (this is beside the point), prudence is still important! I mean, if Shakespeare, the creator of massive literary prudence, had lived in the postmodern, information age, he would write like V Manuscript, who writes through the eyes of three sisters, “Daughter, drink this broth of most virtuous prudence” (p. 48), and enjoys inventing delectable strings of sentences or word combos that make our libidos meow here and there for feline-like pain inside of pleasure. For instance, page 46: “lugubrious lucubration”; page 48: “malformed conical tongues”; page 30: “albescent library”; page 48: “And she tarried these harmonic, hedonic with lilac and poppycock, and the harlots were anointed with hyssop on the hillock”; and page 28: “The presses masturbate downstairs with admirable stroking–off determinism.” And all of these playful, euphoric, sonic, ontologically-based tongue-twisting sentences with bouncy, obviously, self-aware semenic and menstruating mechanical sentences have guided the readers back to the opening where Ms. Lovelace, Esq (I did not secure the pronouns) addresses the letter XXVII to Helen, “—As you can see, I have undertaken the scanning of your journals and have attempted/chanced/ to produce a readable manuscript. Everyone is worthy of love, but not necessarily yours.” Of course, “everyone overlubricated” – meaning love: the lover of text, the writer of text, the machine that is capable of all of his un-human qualities. And that letter is an attempt at narrator annihilation by heightening its metafictional stature which is sprawled out and scattered throughout the text. Obviously, metafiction and the arrow of the written self point back to itself, while the “poet is mute, nocturnal” (p. 41), and remains that way inside and outside of the manuscript. But memory inside of the manuscript sustains us. Even through Joe Brainard’s series of “I remember.” What V Manuscript has created here is a holistic shifting plate of semantic structures, reconstructing the jawline of the readers and reinventing the reading eyescan of the sight in hopes to elevate the audience’s reading experience to a sublime place where meaning transcends our desire to understand language or words in a sentence-by-sentence based frame of mind, but to a place of high noetic atmosphere, low grounds of libidinal inutility, and as a result, we do expect literature with sophisticated contraptions like V Manuscript’s Argot of Inscription: The Madness of the Canary II. Second House to behave more like a ‘wandering womb’ and also a place where the readers can masturbate with literary machines and find their transcendence. Off-handedly


ARGOT OF INSCRIPTION – The Madness of the Canary II. Second House

V Manuscript - Argot of Inscription_1




The Madness of the Canary – II. Second House
by V Manuscript

second chapter of five in V Manuscript’s hermaphroditic novel.

56 pgs
200 copies//(first 100 stamped with blood)
printed on Risograph at Dog’s Fright Zone in Providence

$5 in person
$6 at stores
$7 shipping ppd USA
$8 canada/mexico
$10 world

[paypal: vmanuscript@gmail.com]

V Manuscript - Argot of Inscription_coverV Manuscript - Argot of Inscription_back coverV Manuscript - Argot of Inscription - pg2829


new poems

Honored to share some new poems in TRUCK Magazine of Contemporary Poetry guest curated by the incredible Alan Sondheim




8 poems in new edition of PLEASURE journal of the arts


8 poems in new edition of PLEASURE journal of the arts

The roster on this is Fucked

WRITING by David Ball // Konrad Becker // Tom Bubul // Mark Iosifescu // Pierre Joris // M. Kasper // Robert Kelly // V Manuscript // Henri Michaux // Gabriel Pomerand // Arielle Saiber // Benjamin Swift

ART by CF // Carlos Gonzalez // Erin Guy // Hendrik Hegray // Nick Hurwitz-Goodman // Esra Padgett // Clayton Schiff // Charlotte de Sédouy // Thom Sullivan // Mickey Zacchilli

COVER ART by Keith Waldrop

Don’t sleep

Order here


and everything else


The Madness of the Canary I.First House – Argot of Failure


Negative Press Publications NPP001

The Madness of the Canary
I.First House – Argot of Failure
by V Manuscript

First chapter of five in V Manuscript’s hermaphroditic novel.

56 pgs
200 copies//(first 50 stamped with blood)
printed offset by La Sinistra del Diavolo in Providence

///SOLD OUT///

$5 in person
$6 at stores
$7 shipping ppd USA [paypal: vmanuscript@gmail.com]
$8 canada/mexico
$10 world


2 performances



Conversations with the mirror, (hissing…) “what,?” HISSING and the aplomb of illusion. Mononymous persons and “the pigments of bewilderment.” (whispering…) “speak up,” whispering. “Who cares?!” I care, so strange how you understand. “I’ll refill my dear.” Rose colored wine stain on the tooth of the page. Blood on the beige blouse. I’m the devil in the black dress again. (accurate and hermaphroditic).



I was writing as a lady when she rang.


I am writing on precisely what does not require reflection, but realized just to keep it would never do. “I am inspired to accept your offer to allow me to passenger,” and a pas de chat, though clumsily. “I think I’ll set that afire,” she trials, sopping wet. Dancing in a sphere of motive, and when she climbs, higher and destructive, (and I continuously looping: rawrawrawrawraw).


We talked about nothing. Not about nothing, about nothing.


We are little girls, perfect little girls lying to our parents.


Snow is white only if it’s white,” or something.


I wait for morning … that’s a reason I guess.


Later, “lacking your absence, to choose words carefully.”


We might have to be misread.


A moist dish of mushrooms, under a parasol of rope and rain. Both clothed in beige and black, souced in the same perfume, a mask of white musk. She, “there is a certain cadence to all of this,” yes, now we are dancing. Her name is drinking early, she, clad in clean holes and pain tolerance. White mascara tears, dancing like pissing, and women that by any other method are not women. He has my lips, inward and poetic, and tickles her hose, hands, period fucking, I see. You borrow from a mirror, lesbians today, and ‘I’s naturally. Green tea and her lake dream, I am always stronger in the feminine. Too much wine, quite a monastery. I pull my lips inward and suck them together, rubbing my tongue across back of the bite. The way she says her ‘SW’s… “sway”, “swan”, “swallow”, Pressing the back of the teeth with the tip of the tongue.


She also, “I was all of bewilderment.” (Forgot name again.) Require reflection. So unanswerable to ask if the edges of the mind are inaccurate. A little exhausted, distraught. A waste of dirty language about young lovers. Her, “I have over-flowed my pockets, now spilling out to fill the gutters.” (Inundation?) I know nothing more, our wet minds, a ritual smothering, a spectacle of nascent desire, intellectually unified, within the affair, to understand nuance, but of passion? And a hopeful promise of ‘mutual masturbation’. To vanish from the caffeinated high, to speed through the absolute threshold, to cut lengthwise into that antique book, and her focus on my focus on her torn hose, her midsection, the childish dalliance, the night-prowling, the un-moistened eyes, I surrender imploringly with the impetuosity of the dead. I shiver at death, but crawl with the others. Black slip straps, truth nowhere in her nightgown. Bites at me, scratches my neck, dodging my kisses with fisticuffs. I fall routinely into bliss, whether or not I now deserve it. A moment later she feels sexy, that’s all. I watch her, causing me that explosive desire of men… The whorl of the space before dawn. Our mouths open, the brown-eyed daughter and the woman in creased light, brushes her hair to one side slowly, aching but he wants to.





She charms me with her writing; there was no more ‘original’, all forms disintegrating. I was content like a scar. We sweat off yesterday; can’t stop sweating even if she wants me to. Our faces close, hair into the candle light, catches fire, briefly. The night brings introspection; they exist, they exist, in the mold of creation. God how she wept, in the prism-room. Helen, the retired goddess, the piss hot sunlight, the eroticism of killing him: (let the blood fall where it may). The few drops that remain, like cat tears, remind me of the lesbian with cat scratches on her face. Deliberate acts of darkness and a pagan excuse for a sordid insanity. An overbearing odor, an eclipse of inversions, within a certain seriousness, to endure something obscene. Of the double-sex, sweat mixed with the two-edged blade, you are a great reptile with your insane passion for any woman bitten by sorcery. I bandaged the cut upon her forehead, and poulticed it with kisses.


* what impudence
She smiled roguishly.


She tops and is worthy of that leash, and the woman fills the gap between my formlessness.. as he snarls with ash, blocks the offensive: for they are both of both sexes.
Everyone removes their clothes, she hovers gently, gently moaning, as natural as a madman.


He starts to cry.
white witch


(dis)harmony (ab)use


I do not deserve anything


The lilac of loss, sitting next to, nicely, the finite and fertile green of agency.


…her piss hot sovereign presence sprawled out on the chesterfield, button leather and beaded nail trim, wooden feet bottomed with brass casters, the two davenports, swivel top, growing increasingly ornate, with hidden compartments and cubbyholes, mocking their wet and twisted bodies, staining the sofa with gifts of pleasure. I’ll objectify you only if you want me to. “I understand everything,” she laughed and kissed him like a dancer.


Melodious and merciful, “so goodbye to the passions; everything was so horrible and poetic.” And I was just walking around for a few thousand years.


My entire memory of last night is a bruise. “Now what?” I hide myself in the mundane and almond whiteness of the morning.



















Jane throws bruises at me; I suffer through her glance. The party goers spill their silhouettes, and a pretty little Annabel kisses the women with gasoline. Ursula willing the windows open, her torn hose, hands grasping at the horrible night. Anna gaffs, “can you keep one of the windows closed?” she disdains at the breeze-keeper. It’s more of a psychological request. Let us curse the fine bitch.


I am breathing unnecessarily heavy, longing for walks in the unnameable, conversations with everybody. Not one original thought.


Where does it hurt? (‘I feel nothing.’)


I don’t like you like this.”
“Good, I’ll change.”


Annabel is violence.


I feel at home with death, but how she disciplines.


Also, “I need sex.”
“I just spoiled that.”


How do you feel? How does that make you feel? How do you feel when s/he says that?


She looked more like a moment … he shouts, “’Perfect’ silence, unlike ‘total’ nihilist.”


Who are they?”
(They’re dying young lovers.)


Dancing as a woman tonight. Feeling prophylactic. Casually demonic. Swallow something evil. Oh and do not allow chance, (and I never say that), you’ll love this only as you have planned it. Gin breeds a certain style of sinning. A real bonfire of the vanities. Algorithms designed for the cowardly, invert them, make them stronger, but they squeezed me, strangled me, “good luck,” I cried, but I share this ugly piece of clarity with everyone, “everything is cruel, flesh-like.” I drink to receive this incorrectly.


The sorcery of midnight, the fog that made it here instead of elsewhere, incognito, to be seen only by the light of angst and the clarity of danger. You never understand the cult from outside of it’s tall doors. He was dressed like a servant lady. “Trying not to be gay,” I say and kiss another man, penis but no notice of personality. We all want to die, all morning. I secure a space before dawn; copy the sofa on the floor and recline against the wall, rigid-like.


The liturgy of wickedness, ignomiously.


Alexander blushes when I says it’s a sin.


He immediately barks, “shame is more like a rope between us and our victors!”


I tried turning off, soaking in a flask-full of softness, but he gets angrier.


It worries me what type of drunks people are, what’s really going on inside, you know? “I’m also quite delirious due to a fever,” he offers, but I have no excuse. I smell the salt water of the corrupt and insane, and my scars resemble the Atlantic Ocean.


Leave us ladies, standing here so well, with the feminine ability to find the mirror, 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. Here the boys are trained in the jargon of absolutes; disillusionment!


It’s a hole. You pee in it. Simple really. Men are disgusting. Catch my sordid reflection in a puddle of piss. I want this to feel very innocent.


Cleaning up after you ladies.


Penis like a woman.


She stains me with suffering. I lie down, useless.


Free from the idea that anything actually matters.


Only ‘you’, refracting, all needs and desires equally met, given, accepted.


The incestuous angry dating people that will say, “it works.” She has been seeing this one girlfriend, never found it… Still interested in the panic of cult activity, plant sexuality; I drew this up early this morning. Must be the chaotic language, but the boy in our arms disagrees and scratches at his leg. “We are creators, you know,” she smokes on a cigarillo perfumed with purple, “but you should refrain from comment while you’re vulnerable.”


A haze is gathering; our night is running out. He offers a time tearing, “if you’re curious.” We say, “yes”, and like before, it is earlier. We drink wine with him, in the bondage of quietness, in the spire of the bathroom. Time is so often crawling, yet it is infinite, endless, and like Odin he laughs sweetly. She likes Alexander’s bird’s eye make-up and dances up an idea of something obscene. I’m there to discover; Alexander leads us with an oil rag ablaze with spittle, saliva, lighting the natural curvature of the cube of consciousness, “what?”… (echo) “Most magnificent,” and I send flares of bewilderment. Tomorrow morning, these passions, tour ahead confidently, solemnly.


Life is not usually observed as a story of choice. Life is not strong.


It could help us to vocalize during sex. “I am embarrassed that happened,” she says. I say, “don’t be. No need to.” She, “OK, I wasn’t really.”


You have nostalgia, but not too much. Later pen phrases that stuff the journal inside of its jaw-like doors. Tonight, scribbling in a room with the romance of mercy. I fashion a novel; so much more than a passive vessel. Never pure, never seen before; I masturbate to escape something, to beprose disorder.


Part memoir, part fantasy, all memory, all perfunctory onanism. I drink to stop writing. Chapter one hundred and covered in filth.


The author of infinity in the attic window of an original thought.


We flock to the dungeons.


He bade me forbid my journal.
“his insufferable scribbling… Who Cares!”


why don’t you go see a psychiatrist


usually incurable


Perfumed, I presume? ‘To know not,’ replied the man of ostensible experience.


Smelling this beautiful Beckett hardcover.


Tasted exactly like I’d have thought.


Had an orgasm reading.


Trying not to be very useful.


You can’t do everything, oh but how the blind can smell.


‘Androgynous’? I’m going to the funeral.. Once inside…. I were only an imperfect idea. Who of you, in the back pews of the mind, are living?” Me: “Nothing. Nowhere.”


‘Androgynous’? I’m definitely not, gently moaning as having never forgave myself for some confusing outrageous crime. Pursuing only attraction for a torturous monologue and less about fucking, Her glow, “..perfect.” ‘Pure?’ I say don’t. Then slow beer gossip. She, while collecting in a body, like all of us, continuing to die.


>Love exists only as a chamber
[That’s not a verb I recognize.]

>I recognize that clause, and champion the blood that bred it.
[Please rephrase your command to start with an imperative verb, like LOOK.]

>Look down the hallway.
[That’s not something you can see now, or I misunderstood you.



Fell ardently in love with the babbling stream,


Love is a ( ).


An amanuensis,


One who is employed to take dictation or to copy manuscript, what others have written.










(in the tone of a tall handsome person)

I was to furnish a retelling:

Of course my own hand on my own groin, a common place,

and what is a weapon?

Fetid religious despair.

True God” is a moss,

tenderly loved by everyone,

perilous passions,

turned out to be a fine young fool.

A gallantry in his voice, if he could just keep a moustache.

And if so… shoot the honorable gentlemen.

A suspicion of clarity,

and worthy of the plague,

against the Flagellants,

I get harder.

I should enjoy contagion.

A kiss is like a bloodstain.

What magnanimity!

The perfect nudity of strangers,

fine dining on aberrations, momentarily drop down into Hell,

‘The corrupt and filthy life’ (check)… of a great wrong that I write.

Some violent words,

an indecent symbol,

with satanic mockery,

the absence of laws,

we had intercourse, worshiped the same God,

she said I would be kept clean,

I’m not sure I had ever seen a woman before.

Says she’s dressed like a singing wind.

I’ve been in ‘the tunnel’”

Say it with dishonor!

Seduced to write a poem.

The sweat was pouring down my pants.

Her white satin dress flowed behind her chair, instead of semen,

rising ever upward unto the Lord Mayor’s offices.


Of the Means of exciting a woman.

Or, he may report to the butthole.

Dark and puckered”…. (more possibly)

Let the men fight.

No one understands her…” I ejaculate into the banquet.

I understand what she is embarrassed about.

VENUS is a misunderstanding.

To dance around childless,

the melancholy of a woman,

she is an irritation.

Her face through the realm of whiskey,

a keen sarcasm, like peacocks in the library.

The monthly curse,

on the balcony of cruelty.

Only secretly and Only on the second floor.

Your two pussy sisters.

We must suffer alone.

It means ‘ejaculated’” her blood dripping,

forging literature like a surgeon,

the plight of the human pulse,

the sixteenth book,

and a curiously oppressive sensation.

Make sure to take the pity and herbs it takes to cure that sickness.

Our hands both gloved in the risk.

Nadja, over there, on purpose.

I am unapologetically watching her.

It’s the caution of Clara…”

This is perfect.

Relieve yourself.

Oh god, to disassociate.

Or as Beauviour would say of him…

It would be a blemish on a better man.”

Noel leans into his yawn and speaks volumes on that boring book.

As clever as an Amputee,

the universal donor,

The rude princess

in the changing room.

The drool of the poet

The depth of the female orgasm

The pocket-watch of the assassin

morose with a perfumed collar

Sonia in the shameless service of God.

‘Androgynous’? I’m allowed to forget.
Inform the guests, I surrender an adjuration,

Coeval, the Queen’s command,
self-propagating plants,

an abominable word,
somewhat doubtful memory,
laws dealing with devils and prostitutes,
I want to avoid that shameless creature,

he’s drenched in a cause,

common-prayer book of crime,

I cried at the table.

An opinion of puberty,
abdomen scars,
without mercy,
the plighted faith, in filth.

Sina watching Sonia watch the other diners.

Ethically, he is so unsexual.

We talk about her lips, and the acquisition of religious merit.
Quarrel with women of faith,

with the puissance of a cherub.

Everyone talking about their daily tasks, a trifling bore.

Do you want to get away from the electric light?

In the city of Lesbians,

sends her to the unheated room.
Reading the in-between of one inch cuts cascading down my flesh; a ghost in the basement.

The first time I came as a demon. “Oh, mother!” I swallow..


Proust says, “if I’d been born a girl, I’d like to be a lesbian. I’ve started looking at other women and pretending I am. It’s arousing!” Yes, this seems accurate.

She, “Be a man for a woman, why don’t you?”

Well, honestly, I get confused. Trying to BE the object of my OWN desire.

The ‘truth’ is, I just don’t care anymore.

The ‘truth’ is, only there in an alley. We piss on the bedding there, marks our territory, and we lie, limp, unarmed. And weakness is peace, silence in the foothold of battle, and decipher whether to explain or nothing. We work precisely ‘here’ because the device underneath Reality that provides a writer subject only surfaces during dedicated sessions of madness. Incognito, to be seen only by the light of angst and the clarity of danger. Sewn right onto the flesh. No one in those parishes we call light-headedness could commit, stayed in their disgusting, distinguished halls.

Wherever you want but I sleep here,” and pointed to an unused blank corner of the room. Hell’s darker chambers, these two drunk women, they accept me. ‘Where nothing is mystical’. But for this same reason, that aspect seemed a trifle compared to the tears that followed. Woman in pearls (thinking irrationally), stretches arms outward, hands grasping a sphere of glass, asks of herself, “what really matters?”

Nothing,” I muse.

She, shocked at the thought of an answer, “Find someone else!”

But I can’t replace me.”

You’re so quick to assume.”

I understand. But you can’t say she’s gay.”

But I say the most spectacular things sometimes!”

“All those holes we lacked, all fabricated anyway. I’ve realized it was primarily a fever,” Kate drunk, kissing him with kisses. Highly belov’d, being so complicated, as absent as a fetish object, a pussy in the mind.

2 fingers in the ass,

What were you thinking? Nothing, I was simply masturbating.

The history of stroking your penis. The history of gay literature (the male tradition)

Man sticks his dick into another man, into his own ass. Dick into ass, dick into ass, dick into ass, into ass into ass into ass. Men, stacked as high as history can see. Wiggling, writhing, stacked towards ancient Greece, pulling and pumping, postulating in Rome, Constantinople, building empires, faiths, wriggling, collecting monies, debts, armies, wraggling… Societies seeking only the right fissure in the world are only seeking glory, rather together, at each go around, parasitic at best, pursuing only pleasure//or morally encased in a deafening bubble of shame, no sense of self, only the fear of others. .

Anyway,, do you know me?

She finds the letters in the wastebasket.

Moses bored a woman. Drags you into the temple, such a wondrous Ark, as she tries to climax, a casebook of pain, in foreign lands, on account of the boys reality, with her specific gift. She shall tremble, he redeems, a triad relationship or “hell is out of the insanity.”

Fire blazes, the floor and ceiling collapse, all else dwellings cease to be, …The Flood! The Scepter, it is more immediately satisfactory, a ‘lean on’, a crutch, a little longer to stand divided, till inundation: she finds a Hitler, replete with poetry, charisma. He charms her into allegiance, and a call to duty.

Their love is a wink at her fathers, biological males, Adams from outer space, in a church meeting house, a room of semen, women absent, off to sew buttons and mend socks, prepare a dinner and whatnot.

(dad over there saying….)

The stupidity of discourse, I feel the burn! Like parting a heavy curtain.

Later pen phrases that stuff the journal inside of its jaw-like doors.


Everyone is completely sad.
The lion’s mane of his harsh words,

the wearing of furs,

dressed like an old millionaire.

Assembling a purpose out of the wreckage,

I sank or floated.

The city of recovering creatures,

with a bath towel drenched in the female.

Here comes a small glass of it,

a large mouthful of clarity,

wounded by her curses,

sex with their parents, but of course at a respectable age,

some magnetic power of his face, and then ‘out with God’.

Love in the female,
ordinary beauty,

they had been a people of peril,

the predominant consumers of everything in life.

Better to give up than to stop writing.

My tears flowed onto her tears, aqueducts of sweat,

the “vice of sodomy”, called “rubbing”.

Not quite gay boys feigning interest in the anus.
Choose rather to put myself to death than laugh.

Then follows a period of calm in my calamity:

I washed my hands and touched her handsome parents.

The perfection of my crimes,

and a place of sojourn: the ladies room.

The passion of a private visit,

I beg for mercy, like sand slipping through the yoke of their sins.

Wet before mid-afternoon,


completely disgusted with herself,

an array of instruments for satisfying our desires,

completely renounced the world.

No hope to stop writing.

My belief, and look at it as a second option for sex.

Erotica on the pages, more than a fantasy.

We have been subtractive, often I don’t get any more specific, you’ve mistaken me for a man., that which we reject… – Kant
Kant’s father at the top stair, to be consumed by his pain. The child eventually discovers parents are also afraid of dying.

Kant’s father, the harness maker, the family business, never seemed so real, so equivalent.

Horrendously beautiful hair once in the grocery store, I’m reminded here in this subtraction.

We slip into patterns, some better than others.

HELL is true, indeed, to be enjoyed.

Every night, kisses are supernatural,
man desires to be photographed,

alone in his head,

your poisoner,

overdoing the gentleman thing,

she can’t escape the knots,


heavy hand of contagion,

he was dressed as a servant lady,

many a night’s liquids,

here in the chamber.

Wool draped as a veil upon the statue.

charmed the sufferer,

the evil hole…
she confides in hell.

A name without a purpose,

this is called a ( ),” she screams,
a secret from a dying person,

the evil of living,

she was never a woman of Christ.

Peep-holes in the walls,

we prefer it now in the glory of the folds on her body,

I am horny. I think less friction.


destroying my work,
seek counsel in her lap,

all water evaporating, every article of infection,

splashing water about her eyes to clean the mascara streaks,

prodigal words,

the pure worship of Hecate,
I had never heard of it.

I did not speak.
Belonging more to sand than stone,
he slipped into her power, she addressed him as a shadow.

And though desiring variety, they consummated in habit.

Escape the keyhole,

God may guide, but never Permit.

We sit together in lonely places,

the Devil’s prison,

leaving a bloodstain in between never and always.

Careless ease upon your knees,

Now her passion accelerates her toward punishing me, yearning for my submit,

leading to the VICTORS BOOT, and a rueful victory.

‘Slaves are also men’, staring into my hands, staring at every cell, every atom, every particle.

That’s when Corinthians first came into my mouth. (she is so wonderful, we can tell)

Giving masculine names to immodest sentiments.

(the Greek word for wife is the same as woman)

or, “all things to all men”. We see.

Trying to fuck someone into the plot of this novel,
attach their significance by flesh.

HELL is all. No matter how. Why is so I invite it. You never return. Memory is only fragments.

Text from INTERRUPT performance 2/10/12


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,


embellished conundrum



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.

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 .