Can't tell if it's paint, if it's powder.
Are they dead, ivory husks. Are they alive, just,
I'm only interested if they're inanimate. They irritate me the moment they've made an admission of movement.
small rivers of water rise
and bend towards sleep.
(I am near sleeping.)
Somewhere in the night a
human being is drowning."
I. 1 2 3 4
Image of a girl's head hovering over bath-tub water. Face looks filled with fluid at the angle. Also, red. The tension of the position, the heat of the water. Nose and portion of face lowered slightly into meniscus, by a thick rope wrapped messily, painfully around her hair. Rope reaches rung fastened to the ceiling.
Image of the face half submerged. Water's still still. Everything calm. No ripples.
Then gurgling. Water / Face mingled.
Image of the face brought back out of the water. RelievedLaughingHumiliated.
II. 1 2 3
Image of a foot straight-on, all of the foot's weight placed on a small block of ice.
Same height, image of that foot's insole standing on the same block of ice.
Again, same height, image of that foot's outer edge with all of it's weight on this small block of ice.
This foot on this block of ice from all angles. The block of ice is so small that the foot hangs off of it, struggles to stay on it, actually.
Oh baby, I miss your mind control.
What is that.
"A man's sorrow runs uphill; true it is difficult for him to bear, but it is also difficult for him to keep. I, as a medical man, know in what pocket a man keeps his heart and soul, and in what jostle of the liver, kidneys and genitalia these pockets are pilfered. There is no pure sorrow. Why? It is bedfellow to lungs, lights, bones, guts and gall. There are only confusions; about that you are quite right. Confusions and defeated anxieties."
Dead Yarrow, drooped, hanging like a limp man's sex in a jar of curdled stem-infested water, against the orange cloth-bound book.
I have an itchy tenderness obsessing me, and it's all for two simple bookshelves built for me by someone else.
Could cum to them, just that arrangement.
Came to them.
"On a bed, surrounded by a confusion of potted plants, exotic palms and cut flowers, faintly over-sung by the notes of unseen birds, which seemed to have been forgotten--left without the usual silencing cover, which, like cloaks on funeral urns, are cast over their cages at night by good housewives--half flung off the support of the cushions from which, in a moment of threatened consciousness she had turned her head, lay the young woman, heavy and disheveled.
The perfume that her body exhaled was of the quality of that earth-flesh, fungi, which smells of captured dampness and yet is so dry, overcast with the odour of oil of amber, which is an inner malady of sea, making her seem as if she had invaded a sleep incautious and entire. Her flesh was the texture of plant life, and beneath it one sensed a frame, broad, porous and sleep-worn, as if sleep were a decay fishing her beneath the visible surface. About her head there was an effulgence as of phosphorus glowing about the circumference of a body of water--as if her life lay through her in ungainly luminous deteriorations--the troubling structure of the born somnambule, who lives in two worlds."
"The woman who presents herself to the spectators as a "picture" forever arranged is, for the contemplative mind, the chiefest danger. Sometimes one meets a woman who is beast turning human. Such a person's every movement will reduce to an image of a forgotten experience; a mirage of an eternal wedding cast on the vision of an eland coming down an aisle of trees, chapleted with orange blossoms and bridal veil, a hoof raised in the economy of fear, stepping in the trepidation of flesh that will become myth; as the unicorn is neither man nor beast deprived, but human hunger pressing its beast to its prey.
Such a woman is the infected carrier of the past: before her the structure of our head and jaws ache--we feel that we could eat her, she who is eaten death returning, for only then do we put our face close to the blood on the lips of our forefathers."