Monday, August 13, 2012


God. I'm sad. 

1. Girl all high in movie theater seat. Hair too long. Flings it over seat, smells like piss everywhere when she does it. Not from her. Stale piss. Maybe even three years old, in middle of the cushioning of a maroon seat. Her hair touches the knees of the man sitting in back of her. He rubs her strands between forefinger and thumb for the next hour and a half. She'll never know. His oil stays in it until the next washing.  

Do you want me to hold it between gum and cheek? I will. Until the material under the tongue wells, tightens, salivates. Mouthful. Nowhere to put it. Nowhere to spit. Feel bubbles get thick in there from swashing, I don't want to swallow my own material, what's mine, what comes from me. 

Teach me.
Teach me.
Teach me.
I know you're taught and taut.

Lately, can't watch death on screen. 

And can barely stand up after a shower. Holly talked about this in 1973, about an emptying completed, staring down a drain. But it feels more blank than that. Lazy blood pressure, no way to go from the sit to stand without the swollen heat of nausea.  

"This body is inert, like the earth; selfless, like water; lifeless, like fire; impersonal, like the wind; and nonsubstantial, like space. This body is unreal, being a collocation of the four main elements. It is void, not existing as self or as self-possessed. It is inanimate, being like grass, trees, walls, clods of earth, and hallucinations. It is insensate, being driven like a windmill. It is filthy, being an agglomeration of pus and excrement. It is false, being fated to be broken and destroyed, in spite of being anointed and massaged. It is afflicted by the four hundred and four diseases. It is like an ancient well, constantly overwhelmed by old age. Its duration is never certain - certain only is its end in death. This body is a combination of aggregates, elements, and sense-media, which are comparable to murderers, poisonous snakes, and an empty town, respectively. Therefore, you should be revulsed by such a body. You should despair of it and should arouse your admiration for the body of the Tathagata."

2. What to think of when the body hurts. Chafing words, halving. Imagining glowing pink organs, both body organs and the inside of some piano, covered in placental liquid, lit up, if Rhodochrosite was wet and glowed and was full of dark wooden keys. Pink, pink matter. Salmon eggs at sunrise in the bottom of a low-water creek, a foot stepping on top, between webbed skin. Fill the room with dark green candles, fill the room with carnations. Whatever.

"The sole way, it seemed to her often enough when she was working at writing a poem, to use words with meaning, would be to choose words for themselves, and invest them with her own meaning: not her own, perhaps, but meaning which was implicit in their shape, too frequently nothing to do with dictionary definition. The words which the tradition of her art offered her were by now in chaos, coerced through the contexts of a million inanities, the printed page everywhere opiate, row upon row of compelling idiocies disposed to induce stupor, coma, necrotic convulsion; and when they reached her hands they were brittle, straining and cracking, sometimes they broke under the burden which her tense will imposed, and she found herself clutching their fragments, attempting again with this shabby equipment her raid on the inarticulate.
     So for instance she stole comatulid, and her larceny went unnoticed by science, which chose it to mean "a free-swimming stalkless crinoid..." and crinoid: lily-shaped (though this word belonged to the scientists too, Crinoidea, a large class of echinoderms). And the phylum Echinodermata she left far behind, left the starfishes, the sea urchins, and their allies to grope in peace in the dark water of the sea. Comatulid lay on the paper under her pen; while she struggled to reach it through the rubble amassed by her memory." 



"The pen quivered over the paper, added inae to comatulid, and then carefully crossed out that free suffix; and then brought comatulid into the tangle of black ink, as she moved toward that world not world where the needle took her. It was the uncircumscribed, unbearable, infinitely extended, indefinitely divisible void where she swam in orgasm, soaring into a vastness away from the heaving indignity of the posture she shared; the world of music so intensely known that nothing exists but the music; it was the world of ecstasy they all approximated by different paths, one world in which "love's dart" that wounds but does not kill; the ill complained of, but prized above every joy and earthly good; "sweet cautery," the "stolen heart," the ravished understanding," the rape of love": in Provencal, conoscenza. Thus Saint Teresa, quadrupedis, "dying of not being able to die."

Oh. Fuck.


Anonymous said...

You are beautiful inside and out.
I like pink organs,

We all are "pink matter."

Anonymous said...

I miss you every day