Virtual philosophy of miraculous origins. — And should I mourn that child I was? I’m constantly losing my virginity. Autumn’s crimson sin.
Instinct is a familiar form of turmoil. — And should I chart a fiction of my days? I could start by burning all my books. Finish by writing it all down again. Tomorrow’s Kafka’s birthday.
A strict truth’s simplicity. — And should I scorn my womb’s compulsion? Passion will not wait. Ass thrust backwards into crumbling sky. Through what black and sad labyrinths I could crawl. A shout of joy my only sound, my body arching into gold.
Paradoxical contradictions of a cunning linguist’s wanton bottom. — And should I look up “languish” in my dictionary? As if I truly want to. I look up. This infatuation lacks vitality. Soul strips down to a pair of lurid, gray tights. Any paw could glom it. Languor slips and falls. Too abstract for a hasty slimming down. Going thus through history my body. Coming fighting into its own hot chorus. And spirit, my only companion, my flag of victory waving.
On knowing what is good. — And should I banish body from this spiral dawn? In a solitary room a cat is dying. Spirit’s lust for downy thorns. A paradox for fools.
Occasional body of a primordial soul. — And should I risk my soul’s affliction? I drank that pain in midnight bolts. Watching always a woman’s infinity. Awaiting this tiny sin’s conclusion. A smooth pink scar limns its trail of want. Gray clouds blossom into rain.
A philosophy posing as a man. — And should I kid you about it? I kid you not. Tonight as always I sang my bourbon down, gulping bright draughts without daring to spit or frown. A dark thin hair stands bristling within my swallow’s crotch. Kick again this groin of truth. An artist posing as a woman. A woman posing as a dog. A barstool built for two.
Instinct laughs at morality. — And should I abandon this particular path I’m now afraid of taking? Choosing again won’t hurt, will it? Today is Kafka’s birthday.
A profound insight. — And should I quarry that man’s anomalous foamy down? Hiccup barstool across sawdust floor. Pluck from that tight crack a yawning grain of sand. This quarry you pay for first and last. Vulva anus throat. Hands on thighs. I watch him drool my lipstick tits. Out back’s a shack. Ishtar’s child, I start at fifty.
Awaiting this wild god’s animal. — And should I portray this woman that I am as a sort of continuous humiliation? A tautology of want. Autophagic starts to a romantic fiction in parts. I could burn my books. Finish. But a glorious story strays far from my body’s barbaric truth. To approach that world again with budding arms. Limpid autumn light. Fabulous accommodations of cloud-clad sky. A swallow arrows down through spiral pools of crimson air. Sound familiar? In a solitary room a cat is dying. That bitch, I said. I saw him nursing on a dog. And so I call him Garbo, my wild god’s womb. Kick his ribs and out falls fur. Vomit all his stomach up. I was told that living is a gift. Wrong. It’s poison. This truth I will accomplish.
Imaginary points of imaginary things. — And should I nourish that child’s hand on cast-off crumbs of a fool’s production? Suck cloudy blossoms from a turgid straw, pull root hard soft with a cringing fist. Rigid flash, quick hot spurt, slow oozing limpid finish. Spit out into a bathroom cup. Say: Will it hurt? Horizon’s lip swallows a bloody pill of sun. Black night is falling. Burns again into day. That gray ash coal I thought was cold was hot. Bump back skull against rough wood wall. Say: Did it hurt? Paint scuff coat chip. Pink puss oozing from a scab. And you say you want to watch? Mirrors all around. Touch it. Lick it. Kiss it. Suck it. Say: That kind of pain has taught us what is human. Say: I was crying. Say: Out back’s a shack. Say: Autumn’s crimson sin. No. Don’t say it. It’s nothing but your imagination. It still hurts.
If a sculptor’s logic could lift this world off its... — And should I up and down and up and down? Rock full moon hips back and forth atop a rock hard simulacrum. It clings so firmly to my form. Hang on tight to that pornographic goon. Blow fantastic cunnilingual wordjob in an upskirt occupation. Two four fuck train six and six four fuck train two. A painting by Maryam Ravigiallo. I saw it at Glamporium. In a solitary room a cat is dying. To think that such suppository duty could fill in for a man. Straight appropriation of a salty sapphic ritual. And that this woman’s world could still obtain in such conditions. I am fully cognizant of any opposition to my stand. Happily I craft my story anyway. A muscular sculptor’s modal point. A nodal flow of thick and drippy paint. And a slowly rising animal insight dawns on you. Truth has a funny way of always outing. This small furry animal still knows a thing or two.
Discordant concord of things. — And should I dignify this craving with a blush? Inmost intimation of a final calling to accounts. I find it faintly amusing. I stand. I walk. This is my kind of faith. I stand. I sit. I squat. Lay my body down atop this dirty floor. Full moon hips flat against rough wood slats. Angrily it looks at you. I stand. I walk. I run. Angling down from a hook a slack-hung mirror casts a shadow’s thrall. I turn around. Rapturous abortion of a pious fraud.
A kind of fool. — And should I occupy my thoughts with a magnanimous association common to almost any and all ordinary sort of folk? A madman’s blink-drunk wisdom signifying what. At that point a privation of arbitrary induction succumbs to my laugh. It won’t own up to what is puzzling. How many sad and sacrificial hours must follow this half or fourth or sixth of passion? By that singular standard it’s all annoyingly stupid. But such attraction plays tyrant to my lyrical strain. As I was saying to him. A laying on of hands.
Marital bliss. — And should I vilify this obligatory display of public pomp? Unconditional mouthing off in front of a proud old family’s only son. Mortal clinging to him most natural. Grand strong duty. Words, sounds. I humbly submit this passion. Await your approval, await his. A goodly vain conclusion. Social pathos of infatuation. Arms hands back stomach thighs lips ass. His, yours. My story’s moral’s consummation.
Kafka, F. Lawful trials. Minxburgh: Schockhaus, 1947.
Kant, I. Physical foundations of morality. Mitau, 1785.
Markson, H. D. This is not a book. Fort Washingtonia: Ballpoint, 2001.
Spinoza, B. Tractatus polistico-philoscophicus. Paris: Diasporama, 1656.
Strickland, H. A. Formal laws for naming and classifying plants and birds. London:
Trans. Roy. Zool. Soc., 1840.
Strickland, Ms. Parasitic communication in panmictic populations. Owlstain: Journal of Sociophysiology 4(11), 1995.
Towards a schizomythology of ritual (I). Sound conclusions drawn from faulty suppositions. — In a community in which popular morality (strong right arm of public opinion) is constantly at work — awarding worth to skillful faith, punishing sin with thorny guilt — any activity diminishing of social productivity confronts authority with an arrogant wall of slickly slimy talus-born rock which commands us to attack and crush it. Don’t you think so, too? Markson, citing Spinoza, claims that Kafka’s ghost is simply a monstruous apocryphal apparition of, avant l’obscur, Strickland’s laborious (and not to say boring) philosophy in which what is human all too human lays a groundwork, faux moral brick by faux moral brick, of paltry paradoxical maxims (such as: And in conclusion, I would insist on what calculating Kant, in his constipation, says: And should I languish in my soul’s infatuations?) vis à vis a sociophysiology of psychocultural origins of historically valid customs that has no basis in any known biophysical facts at all. Strickland, for his part, citing Markson, holds that Spinoza was a dirt poor analyst of just about anything you may lay claim to his propounding upon and that in toto his shabby work is but an untrustworthy trap for such morons as Markson to fall blindly stumbling tumbling foot and mouth and ass and all into. And as for Kafka — if by now this limp and pallid topic still has any blood to drain or drink or pump — that illusional fool was nothing but a dismal spirit. His dull world was just a shadow of what this bright (and totally in-focus) world truly is: a fantastic night blooming cactus blossom — sticky, pink, and moist — from which sips a gloriously fat and lugubrious, gray-brown splotchy hairy moth. In dawn-drooling sky a sparkling star tops horizon’s bristly tuft of distant mountains and flat-top bluffs.
An inquiring mind wants to know. — And should I flinch as if I had no control? Probably as a kind of play of light against rapidly strong ringing. Unwilling lips part. A vapid act of mock appraisal. It fashions a pictorial form from my confusion. To put it blunty, I will fuck this guy. Small talk first. In my opinion an unfamiliar floor is arousal’s portal. In my opinion arousal is rationality’s hall. In my opinion rationality is full of imagination’s colors. In my opinion imagination is an unfamiliar floor. I coil my hot dark limbs around him.
All that’s physical attains to history. — And should I walk to him in high significant fashion? Twofold truth of young hips swaying. Mistrust this saffron skirt. I’ll find things out about you that you didn’t want known. Within black iris a pupil’s contraction.
A world which is not ours
. — And should I jump across a plurality of assumptions [1
]? Land in a blank substratum of logic. In sum, this word contains no consonants. And in conclusion, I would insist on what calculating Kant, in his constipation, says: I don’t know. Rigorous foundations of porous laws.
To play hangman in this fantastic jail I call my world. — And should I gallop along this narrow path that winds its way from tundra down to plain? Scrub oak and poplar. Cardinal hopping from branch to branch. Raucous squawk of crow and jay. I stop atop a cliff in mountain woods. Hot tin roofs of faraway Tixpu’s infamous shacks burn bright along a burbling brook’s rocky banks. Almost no visitors during daylight hours. Night brings on a sort of noxious activity in which, paradoxically, puritanism plays a major part. Ishtar’s child, I am a woman of good will. Ishtar’s child, I am a woman of application. I hold it in my mouth and swallow. Cold iron bit. Mind-mad roots of many a human ritual.
As I hid among clouds and storms. — And should I transfix this imaginary pain with a natural soporific such as St. John’s wort or castor oil? Plant clay pot within castiron sky. Nothing can grow but brown grass. Capricious black sun wilts dull corn. Firstborn stillbirth. What any good matriarch would do. Assiduously.
A boldly original imitation. — And should I hold his hand? And how tightly am I bound by inclination or tradition to do so? But as I attach this art to no particular local custom, only a broad cultural comparison can say that this way’s wrong and that way’s right. I won’t marry him anyway. And I’m not giving him back his ring. Morality allows for such an acquisition as this.
How disappointing this practical world is. — And should I? By now you know what I’m up to. Pink blossoms of confirmation. Slant account of my first mortal sin. By twos and fours a spiral string of cloudy drops of sticky sap stings my thighs. Profoundly drunk on a natural philosophy of hands and lips and his oh so happy unhappy words, I lift my skirt up to my chin. Guttural whiff of baby shit.