Her Thing between Her
(Feb 16/06)
Her cunt is like a boilerroom, all soppy and porous, like melbas and rye thins, or smooth and honed like a fish belly or a lime peal left out to curl in the hot August sun. Or is it a mud ovum, a kiln where sharp objects are prodded and jimmied, no soft roe or steelheads, but precocity of things, things and not things, things with no names or purpose, labial things, melbas and toeholds with neither purpose rime nor meter. That thing--these things--between her—her—legs, in between her legs and thighs and pubic pong. Ah the ubiquitous pong bone, the harbinger of clear sailing, red reddest sunsets and japanned fish bellies left out too long in the broiling august sun. Curled up like sleeping fetuses with cleft palates and jujube-round finger nubs. And I ladle the pip of my tongue, a long sorptive flay, and melange the inner inside of her majolica maracas. My grandpapa was a boiler man, a stationary boiler man, a brown—maybe gray--fedora hatted boiler man, man. He wore a hat, the fedora hat, on the crown of his head, his balding boiler man’s head, head. Unlike her cunt, my grandpapa’s boilerroom was neither soppy nor porous, but noisy and clangy and full of steam and loud whistles and other selfsame likeminded boiler men. Men, some with fedoras—brown or gray—and some without—neither gray nor brown, but opaque, or rather no hatted, neither coloured, felted fabric, neither couture or haberdashery. Her cunt, as would have it, is neither a hat, a fedora hat, nor a steam whistle or a loud noisy clanging. Neither nor of these. Boiler men are now called stationary engineers, not boiler man or boiler men, neither of neither these nor the other of these or them. No selfsame or likeminded, nor selfsameminded or likeselfsameminded. Suffice it to say I will neither sop her boilerroom nor my grandpapa’s fedora hat, hat. Neither the one nor the other, nor the selfsame or likeminded. Neither either or nor.
Her cunt is like a boilerroom, all soppy and porous, like melbas and rye thins, or smooth and honed like a fish belly or a lime peal left out to curl in the hot August sun. Or is it a mud ovum, a kiln where sharp objects are prodded and jimmied, no soft roe or steelheads, but precocity of things, things and not things, things with no names or purpose, labial things, melbas and toeholds with neither purpose rime nor meter. That thing--these things--between her—her—legs, in between her legs and thighs and pubic pong. Ah the ubiquitous pong bone, the harbinger of clear sailing, red reddest sunsets and japanned fish bellies left out too long in the broiling august sun. Curled up like sleeping fetuses with cleft palates and jujube-round finger nubs. And I ladle the pip of my tongue, a long sorptive flay, and melange the inner inside of her majolica maracas. My grandpapa was a boiler man, a stationary boiler man, a brown—maybe gray--fedora hatted boiler man, man. He wore a hat, the fedora hat, on the crown of his head, his balding boiler man’s head, head. Unlike her cunt, my grandpapa’s boilerroom was neither soppy nor porous, but noisy and clangy and full of steam and loud whistles and other selfsame likeminded boiler men. Men, some with fedoras—brown or gray—and some without—neither gray nor brown, but opaque, or rather no hatted, neither coloured, felted fabric, neither couture or haberdashery. Her cunt, as would have it, is neither a hat, a fedora hat, nor a steam whistle or a loud noisy clanging. Neither nor of these. Boiler men are now called stationary engineers, not boiler man or boiler men, neither of neither these nor the other of these or them. No selfsame or likeminded, nor selfsameminded or likeselfsameminded. Suffice it to say I will neither sop her boilerroom nor my grandpapa’s fedora hat, hat. Neither the one nor the other, nor the selfsame or likeminded. Neither either or nor.
this God
I feel
God’s hand
touch the cold bell
of my heart
God’s hand
touch the cold bell
of my heart
this sorrow
yet to die
for the hundredth
time
yet to die
for the hundredth
time
Phony Fucking Consciousness
(Jan 11/06)
At 5.27pm this afternoon I asked my analyst if I might not be an inmate in an insane asylum, and what I thought to be conscious, or real, was in fact a dream or a false-reality. Perhaps, I added, I am brought up to see you three times a week by some square-shouldered orderly, unbelted from straightjacket, and plunked down on your divan. How am I to know, I said? Maybe what I take, or perceive, to be conscious, is in actual fact unconscious, or vice versa. What if, what if that in deed is the case? He cleared his throat, popped in another licorice baby, and shifted his weight from one hip to the other. Perhaps some horrendous childhood trauma has left me sterile of consciousness, unable to differentiate between conscious and unconscious. Seeing as we have determined that I am Ego-barren, a consonant Id, the thought has, I fear, crossed my mind, repeatedly. It was you, was it not, who suggested I am paralytic with Freudian ‘repetition compulsion’, and furthermore, contend that I am prone to self-punishment, which is mitigated by the compulsion to repeat ad nausea. The Walserian similarities are most disconcerting. Fuck it, who really gives a rat’s ass what I consider to be real, conscious, phony, or unconscious, surely not I, or a synoptic simulacrum thereof. It just goes to show: something’s aren’t worth the bother of bothering with. Anyhow, dreamscapes are far more entertaining and much less bothersome, even for the synoptically challenged and Ego-barren, or those of us with funnels in the posterior nock of our brain-packages.
At 5.27pm this afternoon I asked my analyst if I might not be an inmate in an insane asylum, and what I thought to be conscious, or real, was in fact a dream or a false-reality. Perhaps, I added, I am brought up to see you three times a week by some square-shouldered orderly, unbelted from straightjacket, and plunked down on your divan. How am I to know, I said? Maybe what I take, or perceive, to be conscious, is in actual fact unconscious, or vice versa. What if, what if that in deed is the case? He cleared his throat, popped in another licorice baby, and shifted his weight from one hip to the other. Perhaps some horrendous childhood trauma has left me sterile of consciousness, unable to differentiate between conscious and unconscious. Seeing as we have determined that I am Ego-barren, a consonant Id, the thought has, I fear, crossed my mind, repeatedly. It was you, was it not, who suggested I am paralytic with Freudian ‘repetition compulsion’, and furthermore, contend that I am prone to self-punishment, which is mitigated by the compulsion to repeat ad nausea. The Walserian similarities are most disconcerting. Fuck it, who really gives a rat’s ass what I consider to be real, conscious, phony, or unconscious, surely not I, or a synoptic simulacrum thereof. It just goes to show: something’s aren’t worth the bother of bothering with. Anyhow, dreamscapes are far more entertaining and much less bothersome, even for the synoptically challenged and Ego-barren, or those of us with funnels in the posterior nock of our brain-packages.
