Charity out of vainglory
But so that mankind might... — And should I uncross my thighs as any common slut would? A most difficult act to follow. Gloomy chap at bar gloms a look, turns to prop his lips against a timorous hookah, fortify his shaky lust with an icy moat, a cloudy sip of vodka tonic. Shod in a black and glossy, slingback calfskin pump, my right foot taps a rhythmic invitation. Fount of sin, I am; mount of joy sitting sinistral to him. Floating houri smiling a crimson nimbus. Braid of thorns, silky hydra’s whip, soft and satin orchid’s tail spiraling into gracious gimbal. Dark moon to light, and soft rain to sun, and sky to giving, giving soil. Touch a tingly stalk as imagination might nimbly do it: dark down, moist moss, pink pulp, and quaking, moaning, foaming bliss. But truth has a funny way of stumbling. Shy drunk fool spills his stool and shucks his ticklish tool and bolts out back to vomit all his shiny icons up. Lucky’s that soul who’s conscious of his body’s cross, I say. This is my blood.
Passion will not wait. — And should I ink my story’s margins with a dramatic garland of turgid puns? By twos and fours oracular chalk marks prompt my tripping strut. Stop now, turn, cock a shrug of vanity into an obsidian mirror, frown with coy disdain. Tragic flaw. Start now, walk, smiling, and with a limpid flick of wrist, approach him softly on blossoms of divinity. Royal lack of bias. Diana’s clawbloom coralroot. Durga’s snapthorn marigolds. Crinolabial calypso tulips of Ningal. Any dim ploy or plaything to mask an inability to stroll cooly my fiction’s boards. But who in my situation would not curl up, cringing? Spiral string of cloudy drops of sticky sap stings my thighs. Yank out tufts of my own fur. Lights dark. Curtain. Start again. Actor’s duty commands this agony go on.
Holy simplicity. — And should I notch a narrow path of v’s into an imaginary rail? It supports, in a word, nothing. This arm chair rocks in front porch wind. Staking out at dirk point a rhythmic plot of visits to him. Guitars, cards, vodka, cigars, and could you roll a joint, s’il vous plaît? Hickory’s a virtuous wood.
About doing harm by day and night. — And should I map this cunning switch from imago to ovum and back again by way of upright larva’s gaudy stunt, glossy pupa’s pulsation? Hoping for any combination that will do in a pinch. That mournful child I was. Squatting in soft warm soil. Poking twigs into conical pits snapping shut in a cloud of sand. On walnut bark in luscious morning sunlight Miss Luna’s moist and curly wings fill straight with pumping blood and slowly dry. How I pull this spiral trick of talk: from maximal bag of words fill minimal supply of rhythmic slots, giving optimal play of rhapsody as branch and bud and fruit. A spiny irritation chomps away at oak or birch; an ocular bulb of tail sucks sap from a bacchic coil. In amazing moonlight this buzzing affair of host and visitor protracts. All Dumuzi’s plants; all Inana’s animals. Barring random panmictic hazards; barring an unfamiliar body in which an unlucky visitor finds unusual housing. How avoid that cold iron bit of morality with which binomial adult plugs its infant’s mouth? Through dragonfly, antlion obtains its siblings; so, too, stands Io moth to inchworm. Hiding, spinning, churning, waiting, changing, bursting forth into muscular flight by lydian day and attic night. Or frail airy fumbling skyward in phrygian dusk or ionian dawn. That, my good man, is Pandora’s gift; this, my fair john, Old Sphinx’s conundrum.
Pointing out a royal road to truth. — And should I disturb this vacant world’s husk? Fat cat morality constrains a callgirl’s running on at foot or mouth. So blissfully snoring on windowsill brick. Crackly slit-back cicada gown. I stitch, for your thrusting comfort, a gold ring into my black top hat’s pink silk lining. Flaring gaunt arbor of lust. Plump fancy splits at drugpoint. Most vigorous philosophical shortcut to a showgirl’s want. Succumbing to a bout of vanity, I crush it in my fist. And I’m not giving it back. Annular satisfaction. I slip away without him waking.
Far, far away from it. — And should I husband my natural-born gifts from too lavish a consumption? Or slavish. Hand in woman’s hand holding sacrificial sojourn. Thumb-tight trinitarian ghost of many colors. Mouth anus holy cunt. Just my opinion. My imagination provoking rigorous comparison to distant soils and angry pasts. Blood for food in this tin roof shack. Sanctuary.
Without flinching. — And should I put my faith in a scaffold-strung story as told for barbarian consumption? Tracing that myth by moonlight. Cowardly martyr’s glorious confusion. Slimy papyrus lizards snaking spirals in soft clay. A flaming scorpion frog strays from its hollow of rock into sunlight. Darts back into shadow. My old bathtub tyrant wallows. Works wriggling warty stump into dry crack. Scaly wasp tail tonguing ruth from gall. I swallow. Dilatory blossom throats forth a cut fig burp of cassia and myrrh. Straddling, I stand. Squat and rock my body into a, simply put, basic truth of thrusting hips and flaring full lips and a most unwilling mouthful of sudsy milky word clots. No. Not by dying.
In which you can find almost anything. — And should I couch this jargon in stylish coin? Writhing atop hot asphalt a bald drunkard spirits out his stomach’s poor custom. This book could burn by startling all my stock words into flight. A starling sings in calico shadow. Posing as a woman that vain artist was. From its dull throat a limpid modulation of humid air. Rich chaotic burgundy of holy human ink mints a stillborn god’s umbilicus. For our sunstruck admiration. Thorny twining runoff almost black.
Dusky thoughts intimating rain. — And should I occasion this association of intimacy and utility by writing down all I would truly want to say if rationality was not in conflict, wholly or in part, with passion? Rooks taking to roost in bush; swallows in shallow hollows on ramparts of cliff. Rashly shrugging off its scarf of black cloud, sun uncoils from day. My lyrical strain playing tyrant again. Any harm in that? Loss of clarity paid back with moral scowls. Wisdom promoting attraction to absolution. Spinoza said it first. I should chart a fiction of my days.
His own actions. — And should I typify a common virgin’s capricious act of willful stumbling, I’ll try not to annoy his lordship with any wrong turnings or sighful mufflings. But mayhap his lordy wanty fucky sucky shy fumbly assy awkwardy unzipply scuffly I? I’ll try not to annoy his lordship. I’ll try not to. And should I thrust my sopping mopping smooth lick liquid quim skyward, I’ll try not to disgust his lordship with any untoward crumbs or odious sloppy lippy murmuring odors. But mayhap his lordy wanty fucky sucky sticky dirty baby rancy burpy farty blacky cracky vomit corny crusty fuzzy four day shimmy no bath I? I’ll try not to annoy his lordship. I’ll try not to. And should I mask my disdain my total lack of compassion my outright throat gagging antipathy with a pouty moan of wilting satisfaction, I’ll try not to trip his lordship’s royal fantasy with any obvious traps of smirk or snarl. But mayhap his lordy wanty fucky sucky fangy bitchy scratchy gashy whipping hurty I? I’ll try not to annoy his lordship. I’ll try not to.
At so thighigh a poorcarcass of joyproust. — And should I quarry from bibuliquid convolcantusions of flintibalsitic orgraniglasscript a circrumpostglacial rockrut, a crucifictional starword? Midmoontight yawnawacracking sadsorrowmyrrhmyrrhful mumtazification of faithsmirching sandoubts of mucuswingstinging raincorngrain. Choosing gin always hurts a a again. Scotoothch and bourbonail.
If only I’d known how to. — And should I submit to a mythology of mystical blood? Spring again. And still I’m waiting. A child’s pinch of monsoon cloud. Provincial salvationism. Passion as notional subjugation. Spiraling in an updraft an ashy tuft of down winks a black iris. This world again in ruins though saffron light stains floor and wall. In through my window darts a paintbrush coil of ivy. A sort of symbol of fullmoon frivolity. Slavish analysis of an implacably original find: history is a buggish program run by thugs: prosaicism is global. Flat against rough wood slats. Fluid sacrality. My darling hips dancing. Sacrificial lamb.
It will, will it? — And should I vamp a proof by color? Child bright chord of tawny saffron trims today my crimson skirt. This virtuous tuft is blushing. Truly, no slim thigh and no soft fawn’s hug is worth putting much trust in.
Of tobacco and alcohol. — And should I guard against asking if any Roman woman was a warrior? A national study has shown that inhalation of intoxicating vapors is a monstrous invasion of morality. Imbibing dionysian fluids is similarly an affliction. Marginal acount of my first mortal sin. From atop that cliff looking down an uncanny incarnation of a popular song. Caught kissing in a barn that infamous god’s burning mouth. In mountain woods I stop. No law against asking him for a light. South falls north in a stain of lilac ink. I must try to control my drinking.
With obliging words. — And should I abolish typological formality from my court of unruly passions? Forbid a flirt with pain and joy. Circling back on its own trail a substratum of logic on its own tail circling. Will it hurt? Classification of anything must follow an obvious form. Limpid auricular rings to match a golf grass top. Folds of diaphanous calfskin bound with brass tacks and black goat. Mahogany and burgundy. Louis XIV armchair, sprung spring sofa, morocco ottoman, rolltop scriptorium. I furnish my writing with nothing so shallow as common instruction. Nail biting quill clipping. Lack of clarity. Bad punctuation. Awkward. Typographical insults. A tragiplayful staging of my inability to mark with my will this blank world. Vid. ludict.
Proof by pathology. — And should I look to my body’s purity? Botfly laid an oval point. Forty days of stalking that slug along its path of transformation. Can’t laugh away that cold as a god would truth. Or dictator try history. Initiatory succumbing to a social contagion. Girl to woman moulting larva from bloody stigmata crawling. Hand or foot or ass or thigh. Wound slowly about a twig of myth, faith is a parasitic worm.
Towards a schizomythology of ritual
(III). A habituation as old as mankind
. — Though all my divastigatory ramifications hint at an opinion that not just I but such an important authority as Vighdan [1
] or a pair of not so insignificant scholars as Strickland [2
] and Litarn [3
] hold which most plainly put posits that parasitism in all its glorious manifold chronobathic sociophysiological truth (truth is that chronobiological analogy is illusion for homologous to plant galls and parasitic wasps is origin of phylum Chordata as both morphological adaptation to parasitism (adoption of particular transphylum Bauplan and intraindividual pathways of chronophysiology) and obligatory cunning manipulation by as of this writing still unknown parasitic gastropods not dissimilar to Sacculina
I would not shy away from stating culminating in bony organisms which display transitory notochords and a mostly panmictic passing on of biostructural information) is not simply a pathology or broad class of multi-organismal symbiotic living conditions having pathological implications against which mankind has vainly fought (to fight with such a witch-doctor tactic as that physician’s ritual of coindrug tossing or antibiotic grappling with hookworms is vanity! vanity also is that insidious form of isolation-ward propaganda known as horror films for inundation with such propaganda mounts only as possibility for contagion follows a downward sloping path) but is in fact a major motor of biocultural innovation (Novalis is as much my inspiration’s patriarch I would claim as Osiris or Ishtar matriarch of my ludict for his famous Total draft of a way to a final calling to accounts
spills its hot hoary downy lyrical foam into not just this or my last but all of my divastigations in which I wring from crucifictional bloodmyth a Janus-fruit proposition as wrought by primordial Pandora’s schizomystical stigmata binding Australasian songtails to Panamazonian wombwords by way of natal African oral artistry and that all-swallowing worldworm to a hiding away among initiatory cloudbirds via schistosomiastic wormwombs and iron-rich body paint) and I wish thus in this third part of my opus Towards a schizomythology of ritual
to lay out my thoughts in a rigorously logical and holistically prosaic fashion showing in a word and apart from my concomitant aim of putting paid to such lapidary hostility as your common woman is wont to cast towards organisms ranging from malaria-causing Plasmodium
(blood is not simply an occasional host of Plasmodium
but both actually form a unitary though spatially and rhythmically distinct supraorganism as I call it giving root to that originary situation of historical transformation in which both mammals and birds found that gift you paw so avidly for that acquisition known as cuddly warmth) or Chagas-producing Trypanosoma cruzi
to dracunculiasis-inducing spoolworms that bug-mammal association or mammal-fungus (what untold story of words and mold awaits an ambitious biohistorian willing to quarry that anomolous mountain of nomological mycology and bookbinding nosology! for it is not just a thirst for truth to which a scholar’s wish to crack this old book or that is owing but to which strain(s) of Mopsi
mold his library harbors as it is known that as a philosophical school adapts to a particular local strain of Mopsi
inhaling during both consumption and production of words its spiriform conidia (it was Darwin who told us that a not insignificant amount of Mopsi ipsiis
was rampant in Spitmarkx’s library in Ruhr-Lülnrar foxing books as far away as London and Bombay which is not at all surprising for in addition to composing his airy arrowscripts on ornithicity and wordism Spitmarkx was his own publishing and distribution industry printing and binding and hocking his own books assiduously along that brook’s banks that ran through his provincial city and Kant as this author has shown was host to colon-inflaming rhinophilic Mopsi ninsrata
) it is as much antipathic islands of contagion and mutually incitatory illwill towards mold of all sorts which inflict and maintain such disputation and rivalry which follow as much as it is canular diffusion of and idiosyncratic attraction to particular conjunctions of words) cyclic or static is as important historically as bug-plant or plant-fungus (Puccinia monoica
grows on mustard in Flouziana and Wyoming causing that plant’s normally bright saffron or fulvous blossoms to wilt and its staid foliation to transform into mock blooms which consist in fact of swarming imbrications of basidiophytic stalks awaiting unwary Apis
individuals to pick up and carry in limb and thorax hairs from plant to plant promiscuous fungal buds) or virus-plankton (viral induction in fact of orthophysiology is global across all kingdoms) thus confirming parasitism’s all-consuming grasp and in conclusion I would insist that it is a habituation that is as old in short as not just mankind but this vast biotic world in which mankind is but a wild god’s (to worship a Mayan jaguar as god or Assyrian lion as kin(g) consists in fact of functioning as a third-party human host of Toxoplasma gondii
) laughing wink.
Practical wisdom. — And should I jam custom into crying? Compulsory introduction to a most salutary position of high utility. Piggy back sun pitching dawn’s proof. No accounting for a mild soul’s infatuation. Out of sight of that traditional community’s habitual suspicion, mirror mocks this daily pulling out of hair. Bray a starword lacking all consonants. Sigh a string of surds of no particular modality. In contrast to night’s ritual of nails clawing skull. Nothing to disarm that cast-off shock of hardwood floor but an indigo throw rug’s thorny wool. Inconspicuous victim of that man’s vigorous bliss. A thousand, in sum, or two, and still happily counting with fist and thumb.
By our own standards. — And should I kill it? Solitary twirl among spinning twins. Crocus hyacinth marigold. I am that bourbon-stung child dancing agnostic through chinslap history and inquisitional godspit. A trapdoor kitty cat hanging from a hayloft. Pissing in my hand that warty toad caught hopping across a mountain trail. Nothing human is inhuman. Nothing horrific is without basis, strong or slight, in instinct. A twig. A rock. A rusty nail. Capri pant round squat in shiny black hip fold. Bosomful tanktop of lazy sky. A slingshot conviction. An assjaw justification. In tall tan boots against a fountain rim. Smiling in sunlight a snapshot frownsquint. Mommy mommy look! I’m constantly losing my virginity. Dusty sparrow blossom burns animal soft in my pudgy grip. I could kill by comparison.
Watching Pascal and Spinoza shoot craps. — And should I burnish my blooddark loving cup until a nimbus of coruscating ruby glows? Lungbud coughs and a dubious fall. Nosing about my damp chamois drama with raspy tool or hangnail thumb. Blind any dull son of a drooling god. Any potpitying blowman who hazards to pry into my scouringpad play. In a solitary room a dying cat is clawing at a backgammon board. Contrary motion of a brainfold canon. Risking my soul’s affliction. I call your bluff.
From this drop of blood. — And should I fancy that gawking scholar? Sunny Monday post-lunch hour trashpick park vigil. Sin is not sharing what too much my body knows. Worst part is this brain won’t stop humming Bach or Vivaldi. So you wanna fuck? Small talk first and last. Hardly an occasion for crying. Morning is for dying violins. Night for guitars and cognac. Sip it suck it spoon of sugar piss and swallow. Sorry this futon’s so old. Had to borrow. Hardly an occasion for crying. Man is kind.
A plain chant stipulation. — And should I wrap my shrug in shroud or shawl? Coldwick labor of a most unnatural gratification. I was asking him if an act of joyful instability rightly follows from a doubly immoral supposition. Much good might flow from a bout of inflicting mutually a kind of utilitarian pain. Twofold truth of young hips swaying. Abstract fiction of wild animals fighting. Communal howling. That much said. This timorous girl’s first communion. Or was it confirmation? This timorous girl’s first communion was a dicklock trick to trip a holy houri into falling into a crassly unoriginal trap of rank umbilical captivity. That much told about what I did or didn’t. To birth a hangdog faith. Only by placing hands against it palms flat would you truly know.
This standard is continually changing. — And should I run stumbling forward from autumn falsity to vain spring? Conscious twilight of social confusion. May you cast a thousand gratifications upon my throat’s profundity. Backward out of my cocoon I watch my mind waking. Trickling unfamiliar at first a thin flux of crystal silk flows thick into that malicious crack. Fills it with liquid familiarity. Yawning from lack of habit, a larval slip of light rubs its blank orbits into smiling sympathy. I drank that pain in midnight bolts. In my shiny crimson raincoat I ran to catch that final mango bus. From saltbright clifftop oaks along a dusty trail through snowclad birch and hickory and firbound domains of brutal mists to an imaginary brook’s gloomy bank of truth. Such was my goal; such my path; and cunning was I to accord worth to my own stupidity. Daring to cross that palatial pavonian schooyard full of bibulous alumni, topforms, and salacious staff winking and laughing at so young a graduating child absurdly tripping among artful roots. Guilty consolation. Custom and duty binds him to it: his timid admiration spilling into fitful flood draws no antipathy. And from that crowd’s abyss a playbold colt darts in pursuit of an awkward filly. From backyard rain into a sunshot patch of orchard: from plain to woods. I fall panting on soft mossy turf. As natural a soporofic as bloodwort or castor oil. To rub with his catchavid hands warm and tingly my wild and writhing thighs with poison ivy. Soul is what I call this birthpang suck of whirlpool, this lungbolt shock of diving into boiling rapids.