MICHAEL SEAN STRICKLAND
Fifth Divastigation Plus Two
Too far without losing
§ 139.
As I was drawing you in. — And should I naughtify this instinctual position till my ovarian art’s pulsation grants ocular satisfaction to any glomming Dick chancing — whilst dousing on porch his patch of paltry basil — to pry a look through my window’s lack of curtain or blind? It still hurts. Hybrid act of couchcrouch forms cultural wound as not just Plato or Pythagoras would know what to call it. Rolling my hips front to back. Morality is conformity to a particular configuration of laws. Squat-hopping that singularity of two souls in motion towards a mutual conclusion. Homologously, its country cousin aims at a grand comparison from which to draw a static faith but always fails. Why did Agastya stay south? Posing was a way of dismissing all of what in that conflagration I lost. To imply what pornography proclaims; to allow what spoilsports prohibit; to satisfy a salacious longing to go north; to notch aughtn’t’s bark with aught’s dirk and drain naughty fluid out. A pair of paintings by two of Galvari’s most insidious pupils. Framing Glamporium’s portal. I, too, was taught that art of drawing by touch, blind croquis of antlip foray slowcrawling contour falling out from in, blood’s abyss to cliff of skin at body’s approach to body. My languid ghost wallows, I’m told by a famous aficionado, in anticipation of that plagiary. In harsh Roman light against a fading patch of crumbling wall my lustrous obsidian quim sunduns to match that monochromatic country’s monotony of roan. Tufa or tuff.
§ 140.
Such an acqusition as this. — And should I highlight a sluggish morning’s vain striving for that woman’s fatidic charm? Small by big to sniff for a hindlimb lift. Among all that dull light and distant spit of cloud. Of link and spacing in which word can link hand in child’s hand a pupstroll prampush into cycling crash of rail too narrow to avoid. Fast past that park and downhill I was riding. High-talon round of tightclad wrap bound for taking thigh and ass. Panting dog’s cock grows turgid and pink. Into mirror halfblind and cry off concussion’s chain that stray was biting. And it wasn’t what I’d lost, was it?
§ 141.
Tautomutilatory bombast. — And should I own a copy of Galvari and Ravigiallo’s
Glamporium: Schizomythology of a Flouzianian arts colony fronting for a global anarchist pornography/prostitution ring, in which our two rapacious sluts, posing as common authors, supply, without citation, a blatant plagiary of my translation, totally without justification, of canto six of Patrolius’s
Ionis Astra? Mind says nothing shorn of trauma’s plot. As if pain’s gift could satisfy a brain-blank stand-in for guilt’s oblation. Both ways it hurts, conditioning with constraint, but not as much with as without. Though what most I thirst for, touch is what I shrink from. No, I’ll not buy that book. Mortal joy’s grim proxy. A laying on of hands husbands no profit from that film. Or should I show you my scars?
And vain again that dull mirror to catch sight of our wholy bard’s
Catoptric birthsong vaunting irid fancy of rainbow snail,
Portal scorpion sting, and woodstrong Norlian huts in which
Ishtar’s Hand avidly crafts Oria’s lush, lyrical mouth.
Now that rings off a salutary caloricity to thwart any parasitic load our mutual profligacy did cast! In sunlight or shadow. Slicing away at a tattoo patch of saffron skin. Fat and ash to rub thick into it. Say it simply. Hot body burns against this clap I caught.
§ 142.
In stark contrast to gray. — And should I smirk at that scowling old woman I was in a mirror of possibility’s truth if a stumbling spiral tumbling down drunk falling and cold had not thrown a club-shack masculinity of a dirk-back boor into my conditional story’s bucolic charm of man pulling back boldly a cowgirl’s black hair? My body arching into gold. Spilling my youthful joy’s not what I’d sought, pussy. From any incongruity of living shall follow this custom I swallow. Skirt down guard ground a brayful shout. In pursuit of a pitiful knocking up against asscart corralrail hippodomal haywall of dung built. It was a sound anomaly, that night of cowculling. Milky thrill of scumfoam.
§ 143.
Discharging it in works and actions. — And should I act according to my inborn dispositions? That is to say, Should I do what I’m most natural at? Again spring’s moon is waning. Among such luminous gurgling as this, I think, Arno Schmidt was born. A clutch of oak-bound robins charts midnight into dawn.
§ 144.
To touch is only human. — And should I jack off in anticipation of his coming too quick? Or jack him off first and fuck fast with him still clinging to it? Hard his tooth of human joy. And solitary standing to watch that pinpoint from focus into flight straight angling up within liminal soar of updraft closing into sky’s iris and pupil’s dilation winking out. Follow a mouth-proud bird. Vanish out of sight.
§ 145.
Rigorous and wary clausal subordination. — And should I fashion faith from ford's crossing? Though dutiful, this stand-in for Draupadi doubts. Complains not from any lack of what pity inflicts. Traumatic tīrthafruit throughfrights a boil of flashflood rapids. Sandal I could drown and skirt slip on rockmoss my ass fraught. Cold that bosomful sight of titshadow chaining fiction to this run-on law of child’s play. At writing I was looking away to pull it apart. A kind of lay.
§ 146.
Annular satisfaction. — And should I rub tingly wild and writhing my snatch with avid hands? Luscious duplicity of graphic wound I contract for public good. Not just any occasional fitchnymph could cord you uncommon as I could polish you rufous and turgid. Hourihand taught famously to lick and laugh and lark and lock that nontrivial part an advancing hour of truly noisy bucking raging pitch. Flow-slough oil of soft almond slowsoughs from limpid fountain squat. Part this black iris. Fur and wink.
§ 147.
Childish soliloquy. — And should I blink dominant shadow’s contrary assumption? “Tantamount,” says Briffault, v. 1, p. 9, “to parting with his soul, or a portion of it.” I fold down my thighs to sit on this rock. Pony carp bucks to scratch pond’s mirror. Dorsal fin and tail. Hip-tight lilac skirt. Whining arc of pug black fur and tan among basil, mint, oak and sparrow. Thaumaturgically synchronic, a carp-cult proposition draws shadow’s proof to try luring. I was waiting for that man to park his car. Corn soup lunch on sunlight grass. Pumpkin tomato onion. But I lack no insight, no suspicion. Conclusion: Go away. That’s what I just said. Bark that mopsi half and half on its own tail sitting thirsty paws. Autumn again. Dog winks back.
§ 148.
Marginalia
Analysis. — “Any analysis,” says Monica Wilson in Anyakyusyan rituals of king- and kinship (Shatsbrook, ASI, 1957, p. 6), “not having as its basis a translation of a group’s own disposition of symbols, is dubious.”
Any constraint. — Judith Narby points out in Cosmic python (Paris, Putnam, 1998) that prohibitions, both static and cyclical, against consumption of particular foods such as bats, iguanas, pork, sugar, fat, salt, alcohol, dogs, cats, tobacco, and such, and stipulations banning bodily “consumption,” that is, bodily contact of an arousal-consummatory-inducing kind, do, in fact, mirror nutritional, sociophysiological, immunological, and parasitological information. Taboo is a functional outgrowth of biological form, and “Form,” as Allyson Montagu, in an Introduction to Fox (2000), claims that Robin Fox says, in Mind is a thing of conflicting passions (Sundarbans and London, Transaction, 2000), “imprisons function.”
Ritual. — “Ritual brings to light social worth at its most profound substratum. Humanity proclaims in ritual what stirs it most, and, as a proclamation’s form is stylistically customary and socially obligatory, it is a group’s notion of social worth that is brought to light. I posit that ritualistic study holds a most important intimation toward a schizomythology of human sociality’s basic constitution” (Wilson, M. Anyakyusyan ritual and symbolism. Appalachian Anthroposophologist, vol. 56, no. 2, Spring 1954, p. 241).
Dirt. — “Dirt,” says Douglas (op. cit., p. 2), “is basically chaos. To grasp it visually is to posit it. In chasing dirt, in painting a wall, in limning pictorial margins, in tidying a bathroom floor or a floor-bound futon, it is not, in truth, an anxious wish to avoid affliction that constrains us, but a compulsion, in fact, to control, again and again, our surroundings, thus making our surroundings conform to a profoundly parasitic notion” of womaninity, I would add.
Following up on Douglas. — “Ritual brings forth harmonious worlds in which subpopulation sits atop subpopulation in a mutually balancing, though always agonic, agonistic, antagonistic, conciliatory, affiliational playing out of parts” (Douglas ibid., p. 73).
Mutually balancing. — A simplistically wishy-washy mutualistic outlook that would scoff at this or that plain fact that all actors in a group must pay cost of parasitism — if “parasitism” is too strong a word for you, think “cyclical sacrificial symbiosis” — is bankrupt: who is at top pays cost of maintaining high status; who is at bottom pays cost of succumbing to low status (which is not to imply a hands-down ruling out of any possibility or actuality of a joyous accrual of blissful gain or gainful sallying forth and blissful confrontational drawing in of a plural multiplicity of joy quick or slow or long or short in coming).
Divastigation. — “Rituals of purity and impurity bring about unity,” says Douglas again (ibid., p. 2), “of divastigation.” And simply by adding “ludict” to this “unity of divastigation” you’d stand bosom-to-bosom with what I — co-opting and controlling and making, thus, my own, a word that not just a handful of scholars and critics casually toss off as a “subdominant position of skirtful troubling” (A. Bimkov, T. Hamiltonian, C. Kidjaki, D. Kidjaki, R. Kidjaki, A. Raymond, M. S. Strickland, M. Turbo, D. Udidi, and B. Vighdan, Glamporium, chatroom communication, not too long ago) — call “womaninity,” plurality of which can possibly bring about a multiplicity of divastigations.
Homologous groups. — (Douglas (1966) again (p.3): “Throughout a social group’s history, notions of pollution work in two ways: as a tool, as a display.”)
Pair of authors. — MacArthur and Wilson (op. cit.) — rarity of citation is no indication of a work’s (lack of) (social) worth.
Visiting scholars. — B. Vighdan, munching on handsful of walnuts, was away picking apricots in Norlia; T. Hamiltonian was fortuitously studying Ingush anaphora; M. Turbo was miraculously bicycling in Buda; Fatima was synchronistically but a young girl; and Kiko was — I don’t know, blowing Tagma in Paris?
Publication’s unflinching portal. — As Hopi Flamingo, survivor, says in conclusion of “Stipulations about parasitism and morality” (Journal of Sociophysiology 1(8), August 1992): “No sluttish hangdog faith in any virtuous act or actor; no blindly trusting anticipation of an award.”
Initiands. — Among whom was a young Sagarch — “A world without ritual is, simply put, nothing” — Flawndol. Showing him my copy of Mary Douglas’s Purity and pollution, Sagarch said, “That comparison of how ritual and taboo function in a social group is shot through with gossipy antiquarian rants about rituality’s social worth.” But, I said, Douglas (p. 63) is just so convincing: “It is not too much to say that ritual constrains and inhabits and fills out sociality just as much as words do thought.” “A convincing articulation of an artfully said,” said Sagarch, “conviction is no proof of its truth or validity.” “But it’s a fruitful start, no?” “Supposing truth is a woman....” “Womaninity!” “Is that an accusation?” “No, just a world.”
Affliction. — A “broad,” as I call it, “class of multi-organismal living conditions having pathological implications” spiraling upward and inward in a continuous back and forth pivotal or fulcral adaptational all-out war lacking any glint of an ultimatum forming “unitary though (both) spatially and rhythmically distinct supraorganism(s)” (O. W. Johnson, loc. cit.).
Chaos. — Douglas (ibid., p. 6) adds that “thinking about dirt is thinking about that natural and insidious play of stability and instability, of form and chaos, of growth and dissolution.”)
Instability. — Douglas (ibid., p. 3) backs up to point out that “political might usually obtains within margins of promiscuous — from too prodigal a skirting, too plushly will slant spill its promiscuous truth — instability and subagricultural groups also show such vacillation.”
Social worth. — Taking a nod from Iago, I sing, in my band Ishtar’s Hand, a song that runs as follows:
“Kingdom’s coin is kingdom’s worth
If worthy coin worthy kingdom coins;
But coin’s worth is not of kingdom worthy
If kingdom’s worth is not of kingdom’s coin.”
By judicious substitution of “kingdom” and “coin” by “kinship,” “kin” and “social,” you can fathom, in part, just what it is that Monica Wilson (op. cit., passim) is driving at:
“Social kin is kinship’s worth
If worthy kin worthy kinship kins;
But kin’s worth is not of kinship worthy
If social worth is not of kinship’s kin.”
Group’s notion. — Try imagining groups, social or biotic, as what I, in my third instantiation of Towards a schizomythology of ritual, call “antipathic islands of contagion” inhabiting troughs of what W. D. Hamilton, in his Introduction to “Parasitic causation of chromosomal variation in host populations” (part of his Not so narrow roads of a mostly chromosomal world, Oxford, 2001), calls “sosigonic stability” out of which cyclical bouts of transformational group fission bring about a schizomythic inflammation of sorts culminating in continuation of biocultural and biostructural information such that, with historical modification, humankind maintains its status as a “wild god’s laughing wink” (O. W. Johnson, loc. cit.).
Human sociality’s basic constitution. — To unhitch human sociality, and concomitant notions of social worth, from morphology and physiology is ludicrously to unman and maim it. Shuttling from ludict to light and back and forth again and again, sociophysiology grounds custom and ritual with transformational backing of divastigation; schizomythology girds myth and taboo with a natural historical compass of womaninity (which is not to imply that womaninity claims that no woman-to-woman conflict occurs: if conciliation is found, conflict must, ipso facto, occur). Just as a tight skirt molds a woman’s form, linguistic construction highlights that construction’s bodily origin such that ritual actions and classifications brim with subconscious motivations as that tight skirt sways with a woman’s walk, and notions of purity and pollution cling to body as sopping patola silk to hip and thigh and ass. Or, again, as Robin Fox, following F. Jacob (who, in turn, was following B. Spinoza (op. cit., passim)), has so ably and subtly shown in That old crimson lamp of intrafamilial attraction (Lynx Hat, Dutton’s Bookshop, 1981), mind, and not just brain, is a spiral thing, with what is most basic bubbling up into and infusing what is “topmost,” that is, what is most casually on-call for symbolic manipulation and most nonchalantly at-hand for linguistic analysis. No conscious action occurs without an odor of instinct; no symbol is without an atavistic flavor.
Divastigations. — In what you could call a plagiary — if it wasn’t so appallingly vapid — by anticipation (and gallingly Gallo-frankish, to boot), Baruch (or Barack) Gorgias, in his Disparition of 1969, puts forth an almost totally (if it didn’t portray with such downright fatidic accuracy my own work’s import) vacant gloss on divastigations as “avatars d’un noyau vital dont la divulgation s’affirmait tabou, substituts ambigus tournant sans fin autour d’un savoir, d’un pouvoir aboli qui n’apparaîtrait plus jamais, mais qu’à jamais, s’abrutissant, on voudrait voir surgir : crayonnant sans fin au dos d’un bristol l’indistinct motif fait d’un amas d’insinuants vibrions s’organisant suivant un art si subtil qu’on sait aussitôt qu’un corps a suffi à sa constitution, surpris par raccroc, par hasard, on divaguait parfois, pris d’hallucinations : il n’y avait pas d’indication qui signalait la disparition d’un fait plus troublant, plus probant qu’indication qui lui manquait : assaillant à tout instant son imagination, l’intuition d’un tabou, la vision d’un mal obscur, d’un quoi vacant, d’un non-dit : la vision, l’avision d’un oubli commandant tout, où s’abolissait la raison.” In light of our topic of discussion, I don’t think it amiss to furnish my own translation (which might fill in as a sort of apologia pour mon art), thus:
Divastigations. — Avatars of a vital ganglion divulgation of which could not but affirm taboo; ambiguous simulacra continuously spiraling about a way of knowing, an occult ability which could not again nor again show its form to us but which, always, stupidly, miraculously, you could not but want to watch it coming fighting into its own hot chorus of confirmation : continuously scribbling on backs of postcards that indistinct motif wrought from a thorny mass of insidious ciliations auto-organizing according to an art so airily sagacious that you’d quickly know that only a body could accord its constitution; a motif caught chancily, and not without a bit of limpid risk.... and now and again, convulsing with hallucinations, you stray.... and what about this lucid ductility of glyph (troubling proof) and word (indication that would signal a fact’s vanishing) I construct from what among all my fair parts I lack? constantly assaulting my imagination, this intuition of taboo, this vision of a hazy sort of black magic, a vacant whatnot, a ludict : vision or loss of vision of what I thought or think or will think I forgot commanding all that rationality would abolish.
Chromosomal world. — Any a vigilant marginalist would not miss out on Hamilton’s titular mirroring of Bashō’s Narrow road to a far country.
Towards a schizomythology of ritual (VII).
Multivocal foundations of transformational womaninity. — Anthropological dogma proclaims that food and body taboos function simply to maintain stability of cultural classification. In a summary of Mary Douglas’s
Purity and pollution: A cross-cultural analysis of notions of taboo (London, 1966), Victor Copulano says that Douglas posits that “
any constraint on consuming or not consuming a particular food, or touching or not touching a particular class of humans or individual human body and its concomitant body parts at a particular point of its cyclical history of physiology,
ritual and labor and such (that is, in anticipation of or during or following hunting, voiding of monthly blood, mourning, praying, dancing, giving birth, and so on) has nothing at all to do with subagricultural notions of affliction, contagion or bodily purity,” but that “
chaos and
dirt is (
sic) that which balks at classification, that which is anomalous or ambiguous, and which would crack form by its inclusion” (Copulano, V. Mary Douglas’s
Purity and pollution: A summary. Global Rhapsody, 2002. As availability of this position is strictly by way of an opuscular tabloid format, information as to pagination was totally not forthright in coming.). Surprisingly, I must point out that two authors as habitually right-on as Rhonda H. MacArthur and Nancy O. Wilson,
following up on Douglas (1966), found it fit to baldy put forth a claim that “schizomythological
divastigation of
homologous groups is thus brought about as instantiations of that multiplicity of highways, byways, thruways, pathways, tracks and trails on which and in which and through which a community partitions its
social and historical worth” (Wilson, N. O., and MacArthur, R. H. Schizomythology involving pinyon jays (
Gymnorhinus ultramarina) among Mountain Fukari populations in Wyoming.
Schizomythology 3, 1985, pp. 599–619). Tragically, though, this
pair of authors could not but in vain right this notoriously wrong appraisal that
Schizomythology 3 had brought to light, as, this particular instar was that publication’s (out of Port Gaspard, Wyoming, 1983–1985) last. For history informs us that, toward mid-March of 1986, with all participants concurring that this was, from top to bottom, an abnormally warm spring day, a curious and prodigious tornado struck without warning
Schizomythology’s locus of control, Port Gaspard Vocational School’s moribund gymnasium, totally wiping out staff on duty,
visiting scholars taking a working lunch, printing circuits, organs of production, manuscripts knocking timorously at
publication’s unflinching portal, proofs in circulation prior to final approval, various and sundry tools, collaborators, assistants and patrons of any robust journal’s daily comings and goings, and a full print run-on of
Schizomythology 4 awaiting affixation of mailing tags by not so avid or willing high school juniors’ hands, anatomical outgrowths of Sgt. Stith Thompson’s class, “Introduction to Marginal Journalism.” Sadly, I must say, I forgot what I was talking about. No I didn’t. Sadly, I must say, our clamorous
pair of authors got put paid in this climatic abortion; happily, though, no
initiands did. Schizomythological
divastigation had thus to wallow in obscurity for nigh onto six springs, almost, of dormancy or dormition until its imago could burst out of its drab chrysalis — brought with utmost caution by survivors (H. Flamingo,
ibid.) in an airtight box of larchwood to Owlstain — and pump its limp wings taut with our own
Institution of Sociophysiology’s bright
foundational blood in 1992. But pruning’s not my custom. From which many an offshoot may grow. And a night. So much for my supposition’s origin. Not for a thousand nights of it would I wish to hurt. You nor my failing. Stop it, Ouida, stop [
1].
§ 149.
Point, shaft, wound, flight. — And should I grow out of gaming winks a wrath of words unsaid? Blood’s conclusion draws it this way [
1], draws it that [
2]. Spring again, with provocation of thighs and pawns.
§ 150.
By acting as if drunk. — And should I quarry sympathy in a tumult of suspicion? Against a ground of lazy music. Viola ray gold and viridian slash of chord. Who amongst my adoring public would you fight for this favor of vajrāsanal cocksit? Slaking panting insult to pardon admonish off. Most any a soft cock I’ll suck hard for room and board. Spit knob to shaft polish all labround and up and down titticklit. Vacuity of withdrawal will catch out that happy flavor. This is my dim stall. A lucid cubical nunhutch of sorts. From fluid I’d find a salsa so good. Now I’m singing. Now I’m swallowing. Now I’m playing at stuffing your cock up my ass. That oud that Maryam strums. Short composition’s a paltry contrast to any conid opportunity. That man paid to watch. Rush to book it, this dark law’s flight from a traditional imagination’s dishrag world. So insatiably randy and just from smoking a bowl of hash! I’ll also mix you a drink. Gin and tonic’s Tony’s; straight vodka’s Vighdan’s. A barstool built for two. Futon flat on floor. Simply to stay in form. What looks a found fuck will find you strapping lust to amorous proxy, all at your own loss. Float a thintin round of waxy lamp in a crystal bowl cut for schoolgirl charm. To match this mask of crafty art. You say you forgot to fill out Glamporium’s short form? Too bad.
§ 151.
A giving way to blind raging. — And should I complain from lack of what pity inflicts? Scaffold this story a timid accumulation of what Arno Schmidt taught in
Illustrations of faunal biology [
1]. It’s his birthday today. Or closing off Haddad’s orgasmic
Cosmos [
2] to imply causation of what long I’d sought for in this groping. What what what what. What I’ll supply you with is that famous fifth canto (my translation, first fair copy) of Patrolius’s
Ionis Astra. Color it how you will. Skin is pain.
Lust without bounds draws Io’s son to mouthlush thrall: Craft-avid
Girls born at altar’s pivot to birth in turn bards fit for bright
Moon promiscuity of spiral dancing and ktar-drinking:
Your [3] Rumi mirrors but dully Atta’s moon-mad ritual!
§ 152.
Childhood surroundings. — And should I drop that man for this? From any a happy fuck I’ll not shy. Aroint and away, guilt’s tooth! Not to gird against fraud I guard abortion with a languid crow winging faith unwary through old growth woods of oak, larch, birch, pawpaw, hickory, hawthorn, fir. My kind of church it is, this patch of grass and sky. Praying pity still as to a slow balling I squat all pious and shit. Taking him limp into my mouth till hard and shaking I pull him down to a shaft-swallowing profundity confirming my catholic cunt’s rapturous affability. In similar fashion, I’ll audition for any pornpart, flat on my back or standing. I was caught in action to avoid that familar failing of plastic motion back and forth and in and in to a spiral spinal crocus gang bang proud. My cultural tradition posits it thus: I’ll not go days nor months without it. Among all my stoic or rampant sins, body’s timing would fish a way to push it straight. Commit to talking trash. Stuff a gawky pillow down my throat. I’m so horny.
§ 153.
Cross this off your list. — And should I initial conditions for this manuscript’s appraisal? I’ll say I’m lucky to play any sign of habit’s word. Of what I’m most afraid of is just a fraction of it. His hair to pull I’ll mimic fools. Such victory from pain’s triumph and push him hunchback shuffling down. This is a warning.
§ 154.
This small furry animal. — And should I unbosom a girlish lust? That scar’s from squatting; this, from standing and taking it all in. Throating it down so smooth. I dig my right fist into a ghost of tiny clams. Bar my way with a wrath of biting words, will you? In play or pain, confusion hazards what I simply wouldn’t want to avoid doing at almost any cost. Monogamy’s no match for misanthropy. Dissolving what constrains it. Stormy auk swoops down to snatch a bright snail from brookbank. Dragonfly still jolts a flight of stalking. Loving my stomach so full of him. And my mouth. This world’s not all that bad if crush is still won among crayfish wrack. Bring no scholar to a slut’s hut. Blood is acid. How much?
§ 155.
Stoic domination. — And should I mistrust formality’s crimson conduct? Strip a mantid’s joy from autumn striving. I lost my sin.
§ 156.
With only two strings. — And should I pluck from that tight crack a yawning grain of sand? Your avid scholar’s almost shamanic ability to span invisibility from rim to hub with simply a waving motion of hands. No unicity of gurus was I taught by but a plurality, mapping multicursal approach to that world again with public adoration. I chart it bright this organum riff I strum to accompany that guitar draught droning rant liquid against horripilating snap of thumb on tablaskin and my own fair bourbon-thick vocals darkly murmur raganuba raganuba to kick this chaunt into action. Applaud pity’s frown to follow through that crowd a wry arch lift of brows and you do not know what I’m driving at, do you, man? Cigarillo. Rhum au citron. Daring a sloppy drabbling spit as ad to what I’d swallow. Not this tobacco scrap on sawdust. Ritually Incantational Taboo Music, I call it, or RITM, for short. Gigs at Glamporium, Tyson’s Arroyo, AGSAD, and various sundry huts, shacks, yurts, bars or railroad cars in motion or at a stop that furnish highlow cultural stock, drink, drug and post-curricular activity to a public justifiably thirsty for it. Cigarillo, s’il vous plaît. Rhum au citron. To band stand’s right that drunk I was talking to grabs a ham sandwich. Mustard, slaw, spiral roll. I wink. Bosomful black low-cut tank and tight I stand glamourous alluring virginal constant proud. Miniskirt flush with young hipsway and autumn sky at high dusk baring thigh scars and tatoos. You might glom similar markings on my arms. Zip-up calf-high boots of ruby goat to round out my gulp-inducing portrait. Tonight my hair is pink; tomorrow, aqua. This is Ishtar’s Hand. Polyrhythmic pantonality.
§ 157.
But not as distinct individuals. — And should I turn plush to him a rutful sigh? I forgot what I was going to say. Swift bubbling flat rock flow of liquid fall. Drinking blackbird rolls wary lung throbs. Long tail flashing. I was waiting for wanting him to spoil my cash-amassing activity on that rock. In holly bush mockingbird chants a starling song spiraling up from branch to branch. I fold down my thighs. Any good matriarch would do as I did. To action may it prod. Slit skirt proposal to flush straight and scholarly day’s division from out that bush. Morning follows night. Fit for noon’s nap I find a bamboo and dogwood canopy clinch-curling spoon of lip and lip. I’m nobody’s foolish avatar but my own, though author purports prodigal wisdom dribbling drops from kabbalistic jar as original individuals spilling from a grand old copyist’s royal fabulation. Nothing stupid or irrational about promiscuity, I’m told in my class on humanity’s unfolding through this vast world’s history of conflict and conciliation, parasitic mutualism unwinding unbinding untangling on occasion into turbid malady’s pathos. Duck island in that small pond on which drowsily to groom. Ought truth ask slant for what or whom I watch? Wind dying down. Sky turning plum.
§ 158.
Banish from thought this broad. — And should I vaunt symbol’s crypsis? Fuck that. Visuofacial dissimulation’s a capacity of moral praxis. All on him and shit I was dancing. Stain motif of story’s blood might imply quasivulvular thighhump. Bimanual hairflip cocks a snook at all in that crowd who stand idly watching. How string him bunkward, I ask. That man I’d soon ravish. Or is my cooking all that bad? Armlift icon of lust.
§ 159.
A two-way oblation in not too many words. — And should I look down to borrow light from him? Touch giving hand with my own that blocks from wind. Tip glows saffron crimson bright ash ivory flaking. Unkiss from cigarillo’s lip and say thank you smiling. Black calf salsa pumps I clutch in my right. Don’t ask.
§ 160.
Both kinds of agitation. — And should I kibbitz in contradistinction to body and soul? Backgammon. My sixth straight win or loss. A barstool built for twos and fours. No odd couplings in this joint. Involuntary shaft habit pulls my hair back. Good. Body shorn and all in that mirror’s frail timing to click unhappy sandal strut sidling high. I forgot what I was doing. A similar mad spasm to bind irrational that hand in a physiological clinch. Fantastically happy this thing that mocks. Which is what all art is.
§ 161.
With him and for him. — And should I wink that proposition with a blank of sham flirtation? Gambit forms paradox with mimicry of word. I was hiding in that mirror to pool cost for what moon with irid lips would blink. Any snail’s lack of cunning charm. Scar a glyph of worldwound. Black pond’s mouth swallows blood.
