kleaver

How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

Tag: experimental literature

Protected: Sakhalin burning

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Protected: a study of futility

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deep bass protest

the dead gong sounds
in the dead of the night

star-light wrinkled feather
and a burnt, dying-out fist-fight

delight people-flying
with a bounce air-tight

arm slight to the belly
on the hood on the car’s top-light

what height feinted moisture
over-bruised clanking screams “de-knight!”

takes-fright motor screaming
deep-bass morse-code writes

“I’m slight-ly off-duty see
you tomorrow, good-night”

slept tight
her head on the tarmac song

study of spasm

Pulled into meditation
producing only disgust
The face of the body scrunches
and dourly, escapes itself

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Because any organ can only exit out of itself, through itself, into itself.

little death

i told Corbett that he was old
and his face split
was reamed
by realising the wrinkles that hung off it
to say ’no’
he shook his dreary udders
from which no more wisdom poured
and pronounced ‘i am dry now’
with a surgical flourish

at sixteen i took up despair
and wondered from which nook in my shoulders
i could see my genius flow

i picked a country off a map
‘Nebraska’ was a good, strong name
for a nation with a beard and orange hills
i would save the people there
there was no better start to conquest
for i could see its end already
nations clamouring for the touch of my hands
mother teresa died in my bed
i wept and shuddered and
poked my head under thick covers
as i roamed about the streets
and felt a rhythm of vast aloneness
syncopate my bucking hips
i drooled cyanide into my pillowcase
from resistances dotted past Europe and Russia
i kissed sartre in the frigid french air
joined tongues with Einstein
shared St Helena’s with Napoleon
pushed Hitler off a cliff
his face shining from under my floor ball stick

i have awoken with my hands strapped to my sides
in a white room sprayed with antiseptic
after tearing the skin off my kneecaps
for i could not stand the regular pattern
of little scratched dots there
yesterday Corbett told me
i had never been to France
or Prague
had stabbed a friend with a toothpick
he told me he would not strangle me
and covered me with a grey blanket that fell in puddles
i could not straighten with my bound hands

but someday
when i can
i will write his name in a little red book
and beside it,
“is old”
and he shall fall to the ground in the same agony
that carved insides out of a scalpel-wielding me

––––––––––––––––––––
Corbett told me that i was mad.

oaxaca

This evening i tilted my skull towards the sky and saw a Michelangelo’s sunset covering the expanse i know as sky – swept off the urbane bus and phlegm-specked windows i suddenly become aware of a deep, throbbing desire to believe in something bigger than myself – to see that there would be a god absolute enough to have patented this beauty or churned it out in a colour factory with an audience of captivated humans with their manmade reason to have witnessed – and then i look down at the blue duffel stuffed between my legs, and the stale, pale, smell of sweat gracing an air hemmed in by many skins – and hear the children asking fantasy questions – “mummy, if you could be anywhere now, where would you be?” – and energetically i laugh myself off like a puerile joke.

atlas weeping

Admit – is freedom supposed to be a chore? Suddenly i am able to understand the plight of atlas – i must answer for everything, have done everything, have been thrust into the world conscious and only too possessed of my own faculties. There are deaths continents away that i want to fold up under, tuck my feet up on a couch, miles above the floor when the blackness spills from distant sky into a discrete night in the bedroom. You, too, must pay for every second wasted as you grieved over the biological convergence that swaddled you into existence, and the bright outrage takes precious illogical seconds you cannot answer for. The world is beating on about you in within its silly incomprehensible law. No human scribe can read reason into the absurdity of our race, to which the angry, foolish, individual is the key – the man who distract himself with jobs, sex, and other people. This tribe has concocted its own reason – sketched crude parodies onto papyrus held beside the sun, turned and stared point-blank into the monstrous rim of eclipses, cried at seeing death, a more distant death like the starvees in Uganda that could not be more pure of bereavement – and yet they are. You are hugging everyone selfishly, egotistically to your chest, may believe that when one world ends all the others go marching on in the same invincible ignorance. But your life is not like the others – the phenomenal world is a dirty and threatening loan-shark, and to add humiliation to despair we cannot describe it in languages it has not already given us – rogues and thieves and highwaymen. Now you are kneeling upon a red carpet with a stake in your arms, and you remember that you have been nothing but an attempt by a species in the quest permanence and beyond that, a dark intelligible void. You place the stake onto the floor and slowly lower your heart into its sweet, weeping embrace.
–––––––––––
The function of explanation at y=laziness yields a negative value of x.

at the mill with slaves

I concede – would rather be named 14763 than a silly unpronounceable thing of romanised ‘asiatic language’. And really, i would rather not be named at all. I would like to be raised with fifty million other cherubs in a petri dish, produced by whirring machinery or rows of birthmothers strapped to daises in a clean production line, timed screams, timed labour, babies popping like popcorn to a cosmic manmade rhythm. I should be crammed with organic logic – i would be breathed into life from a first body – the first  achiever of everything, i the machine evaluated every five minutes, battery checks and math. I would like to be stencilled into a character, well-oiled, the flesh concession to a world carved from itself – the brain turned against and into tiny metal canisters, transistors and lawful jetpacks. Bad faith will become the natural state, everything will be told what to do, we will relinquish ourselves and be incapable of fear or dysphoria, we will have no choices to pretend to make, or even lives to live – for this beautiful earth is too sublime to be life. We should pass into objects and out of objects, never having lived and never really dead, stark chance combinations, manufactured atomic algorithms, random, real.
––––––––––
Bravely, I aimed at utopia. And missed.

Now i know you – the dogma has faded from your face and you fall into my lap, a nude flap of flesh colour.

hello, amygdala

Hello, Amygdala. Do you see out of my tiny cut-out windows that strange and foreign man across the table? He is speaking, his lips are glistening and gnashing furiously into the shape of words, and when the occasional violent sound is called for, the tip of a viper tongue spittles out from between the gouged-out insides of the mouth and spits effluent into the air. When he is not shovelling food into his mouth he is excavating these words – all the way from Sakhalin that smoke-puffing incarceration from the other side of alimentary land. Suddenly i realise that he is hollow, and his actions transform – his mouth engorges in aggressive ripples and cradles slowly the contents of his stomach as they are brought out, dilated, under the light. The intestines are a trouble to unfold, but the vapid negroid bones fold obediently under the lap of a bloody, clumpy mass and now the whole system is herculean, pumping machinery – whistling with angry air socketed from one end of Person to the other, and still his hands march smoothly on, impaling himself furiously onto spoons and spoons of risotto, cream sauce whisked into the gale and ejaculated like albino mice just seconds after – the whole thing a sick diorama, clockwork.
––––––––––
Excuse me – I am pregnant with cherubs and wish to vomit them out into the world.