(I just put it on but tinternet is shit
so excuse the stutters and buffers)
I have to put it on cos the upper part of my torso
is in love.
My solar plexus. And it vibes into all directions.
Shine on, shine on little rhizome of lurve, little web of
inter-age-al ground.
Integral – inter inter inter is what my lower part
screams.
The deep notes, let me call them that, are the only
punctum that can send out straight lines.
My head nods down, deeper and deeper into the excitement
of despair.
The excitement of despair?! (Kristen Stewart writes
poetry. I hear it’s awful. And yet I like it.
I imagine I like it cos I imagine it says sth only half
composed as “excitement of despair”)
K-Stew, you got the vampire in the end.
How “on earth” can I get there? I wanna make yours move.
I want you to make mine tremble.
I have cleaned my teeth and I snarl them over and across
the red matt lipstick.
Oh it stains them a little but there you go – makes me
look slutty which, you never know, may be a hint.
I can think of so many other hints.
Spreading legs and pointing f.e.
But that might not go down well. Well, ...
Bishop and actress – only there is no space for the
cleric in my story.
What the actress said to the bishop may be saucy but what
the bishop said to the actress is what made her shut up and think of England. Its
valleys and purple skies, seagulls screeching as we lie in dirty sheets that
smell bad and smell good, very good – come again?
And as we lie to who has to be lied to in such situations
– we don’t feel a thing cos guilt pulses in the same rhythm as the fast bit of
the moonlight sinatra and somehow, in my synaptic make up they cancel each
other out.
And my make up is not even needed cos your aged eyes
can’t make out details (although I do slip out of bed while he’s sleeping the
sleep of the in-out-in-just to get that out-of-bed-look onto my cheeks.)
My cheeks for you to slap.
Babe! What’s your name?
I got a facebook request from someone called Ben Ben.
Is it you? You’re looking for me – and don’t you know it!
I know it cos I feel it.
My online presence quivers!
He only just joined, ben ben.
“Born / Joined 2014”
I looked you up. You are “the mound that arose from the
primordial waters”
It is you?– You “took my face in your hands and … the
earth moved” he said.
(I think. Is this our first instance of mimesis?)
“Help Ben Ben find friends”
He has 3 friends, all 3 are called Sophie. But you know
my name, you know it full well.
Is it sm1 else’s wisdom you’re looking for? 3 times a
lady and none the wiser, I tell you!
He’s only posted one thing on his timeline:
“candy”
I had to look it up to make sure: Wikipedia (I love your
belly! It’s growing towards me)
(here come the italics – leaning away from the protruding
torso, but only as a tease, I can assure you!)
Shelf life
Because of its high sugar concentration, bacteria are not
usually able to grow in candy. As a result, the shelf life of candy is longer
than for many foods. Most candies can be safely stored in their original
packaging at room temperature in a dry, dark cupboard for months or years. As a
rule, the softer the candy or the damper the storage area, the sooner it goes
stale.[14]
Yeah but! We run away with the “h” and then let’s talk:
Self-life. That’s very different.
The harder and damper the longer it can be kept.
Innit – cos we’re waiting, we’ve been waiting for ages –
always ready.
Also (please note) another thing that’s wrong and has to
be amended plz:
It cannot be safely stored.
Safety lives in a different part of my building.
I keep my candy forever in a state of precarious desire.
This certain (d’you know?)
just-about-to-be-sucked-ness.
I try and avoid the sticky situations but once in a long
dark and musty while needs must, so:
(let nobody find us)
Cellar door. The most beautiful word in the English
language, did you know.
Come and open it! (there has to be a key in a story like
this)
As I was saying: Safety is in a whole other dungeon where
words-r-still-worth sth at least.
Bacteria is what’s lacking in my life. Cleanliness is
brutal to me.
Ben Ben, is it you then?
(His status says he’s married!)
I google “tragic classical music” just to see if after
the moonlight there’s anything left.
If my nodding still sinks without the soundtrack of
longing
My friend (OMG – she actually looks like Kristen Stewart!
There’s no way of showing you without compromising her, but really really she
does! What’s her news for me? Tip off?)
She fb-messaged me to ask if we can skype and I say: no,
I’m just writing a love story.
And then I know what it was I was doing.
Is this what it is?!
(The strings in Mozart’s Requiem say: YES! Min. 00:48
here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zi8vJ_lMxQI&feature=kp)
LOVE – you crazy lil’ting! Surely that’s way too sticky a
word.
How can we keep things casual?
CASUAL!
Angry lil’hooligan dressed in designer clothes.
That’s what you are to me.
De-Sign. Take it away. and let the rawness of your body
pulsate without signification and without referent.
Immediacy is my strength.
And don’t you know it!
I took some Echinacea today. I took 2.
Not to get ill, you see.
They left this numbing tingle on the tip of my tongue
while I conjured up the mental image of where I wish that sensation had come
from.
Oh sweet Lord then I knew
The illness had come upon me oh Lord
It was too l8.
Infinitely L- AND LAY THE 8 DOWN so I can slide into its
valley and mold my chest on its hill and my hill on its crossing.
What a life – candy – what a self-life. H.
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
All we can do now is
Hush so (s)he won’t find us.
He: “Lean in the opposite direction baby.”
She: ““Word” won’t let me”
Both: “Abandon it then, we’ll know where we’ve left it.”
On the threshold of your marital fb status and my ring
finger.
Digital obliviation.
You said things that if I’d repeat them now you’d
instantly know who was meant and I’d blush at being found out. (Though they
really should be part of this text for there to be two sides to every story.)
Blush and Crush rhyme.
You and I: crime?
You and I: swine!
You and I: NEIN
I think rhyming won’t get me closer – there’s always the
gap of non-matching, innit.
The “so close but not quite” “so close and yet so far”
So fucking far:
Two words dancing, their arms stretched to hold tight
across that differentiating consonant.
Is that what’s happening then?
If it was, let’s say you were a word and so was I and we
sound like a pair but mean unrelated things. And then we amalgamate.
It’s good, that. Amalgamation
Baby, can we do that?
The strings say yes
Mimesis, Mine! My messes!
The shaman likes dressing up like the flower, whooing it
to get its sap.
And we’re going down a different path, same same but very
very different, you with your facial hair and me with my distinct lack of such.
This approach will not succeed. Especially since I believe you are quite
traditional in your intrinsic role play.
That’s fine. So am I if you want me to.
For a minute longer –
I can’t keep longing, it’s bad for my forehead – all the
tragic wrinkling that’s going on there.
I do consider dressing up now. The sap is good for my
skin. And if you insist I wait, and essentially that’s what you’re doing, as it
were (as if it were) I’ll have to prevent premature ageing.
That’s pre-virtual whooing.
Nothing casual about this I must say tho
See, and that’s all wrong now – i’ve been taken for a
ride. for a stroll. for a drive. for a surf.
By my body. Crazy body. Wanted to take you for
one. Or wanted you to take me. Take me on, a pleasant struggle. Our small
vanities can adore each other in Gucci glasses.
We’ll gloss ourselves up in coco oil and crack open to
marvel at the awful. (And how refreshing the juice of an only-just fallen
fruit. )
Because: let me explain sth to you:
Once a month I bleed. It’s banal and neither pretty
not ugly. It just means I have to remember not to wear white (innocent little
thing that I am).
And then, about two weeks later – this here happens:
Fuck me! Literally. My body feels like an anonymous but
destined piece in a jigsaw puzzle – the hole in a lonely carribean island, say
– that’s been lying around for / 4 weeks now. It’s self-life is up. Test me
against every other piece of jigsaw in my vicinity. Let’s just check if our
contours match against each other! Now!
Every girl is a piece of an island. I wanna check if i’m
part-a-yours, plz
And as regular as the swelling of the moon (like over the
flattened broken up Bahamas) this thing happens, where I think:
Fuck it.
It need not fit.
The irregularity of pattern is what we want RN, isn’t it?
Just force it in already, it’s almost a pretty picture. We’ll say that’s
deliberate.
So nonono, I take it back, this thing I said about love
or whatever.
It’s “hormonal” and you Ben Ben were there at the
right/wrong (so wrong and yet so right) time.
Ok, but then you were gone before... before everything!
Something else:
All song – all dance – all word – all every narrowing of
expansive dark (-ish cos it’s moonlit) matter is just a coy play with
RRROOOAAARR, innit.
Tiger – (ben ben your fb profile tells me nothing! Other
than your favourite tv-show being Danger Mouse.)
Is it now? Is it really?
(I still dance. Somewhere around: 1:47)
I dance in a white dress, I am a debutante, and you may
be the one. Or his father.
And if not and neither I don’t care – you are for tonight
and all vibrations my body can exhaust are angled towards and through you. Into
you. So you finally get it!
Get me? Get me! D’oh! Waltz and waltz and wait:)
Do you get it?
Punctum is this thing that everyone gets wrong:
It’s not the universally aha’d-at scratch in the surface
of the photograph, it’s not the syntactical trip-up –
Its my precious. I just made it up. For no-one else to
contextualise rn but me. That’s vanity, right?
My own private idaho.
(your fave film)
Deposited temporarily in someone else’s squashed-down
memory.
I am your secret lodger. I insert myself into your story....
But then… that’s what you’ve done to mine.
If I follow you on twitter now you’d know.
You’d just know!
Follow you all the way down to Italy. (Or wherever we’re
headed)
And you’d know cos out of context I’ll be visible, my
sappy sassy costume is made of short-term fabric.
And as it is THE BALL IS OVER and I’ve taken it off ages
ago. Standing here – bare – waiting.
I have no shame. Not when I’m trim. I’ve done lots of
exercise recently (ride/walk/surf/etc.) so there’s nothing to be worried about
once you’ve dimmed the lights.
I said it before and I’ll say it again:
The whole thing is just collage. This whole thing:
I wanna see if we fit, move our shapes around a bit and
if we don’t no worries, no hard feelings, never hard feelings – hard things, some
hard things are needed, but no hard feelings.
No hard feelings ben ben.
No strings (pause them here/start the pounding
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nT7_IZPHHb0)
Collage or collagen – fill her / filler (for my wrinkles,
as I said, cos all this wanting, all this mimical urging is taking its toll on
my skin)
WHY ARE YOU NOT HERE?
It’s as simple as that!
WHY THE FUCK NOT WHEN YESTERDAY YOU WERE HERE. RIGHT
HERE: AND YESTERDAY I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT THE DEAL WAS. YESTERDAY THERE WAS NO
DEAL AND TODAY THERE IS AND I WANNA TELL YOU ABOUT IT. MAKE THIS ITALIAN OFFER
–irreversible, irrefutable, irrational (most of all irrational : “oh baby,
what’s happening to us? sigh” “I don’t know honey, but it feels so gooood”
PUNCTUM)
Here’s the deal:
I want you to look at me. I want you to stand where you
stood yesterday with your weapon of choice and look into me.
I don’t invite that many ppl round to properly see me.
Mostly because there’s little point in asking the blind
ones to check me out.
That’s a game for pre-pubescent darkness. I’d rather have
you – and you can look cos I’ve seen you look – you’ve blinded me with your
look and seen my own private pre-pubescent darkness. It’s really rather dark –
but who am I telling this to – you’ve seen what there was to not see. I looked
at you, you said something vaguely flattering and it got dark. Maybe that’s
what happens when your sight enters mine –
All this. This image I have of your pierce. Furtive and most
deep, Sir. Most deep.
Can we transfer it?
Screenprint it onto a different occasion.*
*My True Blood bedding:
/Vampires are mythological
beings who subsist by feeding on the life essence of living creatures,
regardless of whether they are undead
or a living person./
(we already knew that but it’s good to
keep one’s references ready.)
(Come (to think of it! It makes me – ) come. One
cushion, two heads: To think of it: our heads, those bulky things only there to
facilitate that stare. To mold it into a compromise, a compromising tongue that
wets it, only cos it has to to leave a trace, and that’s all I want. Bloody
bacteria. I smelt your breath, it was mildly unpleasant. To the degree where I
want to smell again and again just to check. And again in an infinite loop,
lick it onto me then I’ve got it myself. L-8-er L-8-er L-8-er I’ll say: “Wow! I
fancied him? What was wrong with me!”
But then that’s a moment that, if we stay like this right
now – will never come, so come again with your breath. L-8er we can try and
forget and I’ll succeed most days and you will, too. Though not as easily since
my efforts to get you here have to leave a trace on your ...thing. your---self.
A totem on your shelf. That place of always remembering fondly. When hair
is grey (not long to go) remembering softly the fondle, the fondness. That’s
what you’d call it.
Knowing fair well that it wasn’t that that glued your
body to mine.
Kinship.
Finally. That’s all I’m saying, mate. Kinship!
What an odd thing, indeed!