Editions MSS
Editions MSS
Ninth Divastigation

Crass and faintly lunatic

Antlion. From a photograph shot by Otto X. Goldbarg, c. 1924–1927, of a Mountain Fukari clay bowl (#2004.24.13595) found with Ossuary 162 in Room 21 of Swarts Ruin, Grant, Wyoming, and on display at Harvard’s Display Institution of Old Folks and Tribals in Boston, Mass.
§ 185.
Spiritual insight. — And should I qualify this luxuriant lucubration mixing sublimity with humility? Body affords a moral ability. Past that spiral quiddity of a quixotic dawn I was passing. As gray as that sky shot through with starling song. Into Owlstain’s “natural” or “normal” fauna. Not so quaint an intrusion. Locust and liana. Luxurious, too.
§ 186.
Moral limitations. — And should I worry this crumbling tooth? Disgust posits its own pudgy justification. Mirrors what it lost in a scaly gap of scabby pulp. Pitch a hollow cuntsquat for what that grim john’s grinning satisfaction can’t account for. Mockingbird wingprints in morning snow.
§ 187.
Hamiltonian sublimation. — And should I grab dry truth’s twin blossoms of claw and fur? Signification has to do with how my body confronts it. Flailing flaying taking in of it what I will. Stinging stigmata bait a limp world’s back. Roll it in my mouth. Wrap my limbs around it. Soul’s nobility is a torpid gloss for “groping, grasping, groaning grip.” All my dainty soft and hot dark spots did that philanthropic philosophy maul and moil. Blood-cold vomit in a prison-ward bunk.
§ 188.
I was howling again. — And should I nag that gangly slut’s thirst? Full-frontal hours of it, your honor. Ambition’s mirror mocks my slant skirt’s dangling shadow. Not doing too badly at all. Gun-point spill into an ambitiously ogling drink. Two can win at this yawning gnaw. Drip dry that happy turning on its frowsty bank of want. Hyacinth in bloom. Forsythia.
§ 189.
A smooth pink scar. — And should I cut my arms and thighs? Ishtar’s child, I am. “Craft-avid, mouth-lush young girl,” as Patrolius sings in his Ionis Astra (first canto, my translation), a manuscript of Ityalian quatrains found at Saragossa by Potocki in 1809, though it was initially put down in writing at Kabul, around 1517, during that famous Poldavian’s ambassadorship to Babur’s court. In this ludict, I’ll chart a path from his first canto to his fifth. But what, you ask, might “craft-avid” signify? (“Mouth-lush,” you anxiously murmur, is downcomingly forthright.) This wound, this pain, this blood, this joy, this scar, this transformation from “pavid virgin” (canto 1 again) to proud, knowing woman for whom “singular ravishing” and “plural violation” (both from third canto) and “bright-moon promiscuity” (canto 5) stand, not for any trampling-upon sort of dusty humiliation, but for a luscious jubilation of sociophysiological truth. Rhythmic crooning. Positional pulsation. Soft patch of sand on a trail in thick woods. “Swart Atta’s wingbright gift” (back to our first canto). Schizomythic blood nourishing Norlia’s famous orchards of tangy apricot, bursting fig, dark juicy nutty plum, slick mordant tamarind, tart ambrosial citron, viscous plump scrumptiously hollow ktar fruit, and old-growth stands of hardwood. I’m thinking of walnut in particular. Sap in a barknotch of that thick strong trunk from which “this hollow ktar-cup of basswood” (canto 1) is struck. Rain in plow furrows. Plant clay pot within cast-iron sky. Schizomythic blood caught flowing in that basswood grail and drunk hot and throbbing. Schizomythic blood coagulating into that ktar’s (a sort of oud) buzzing triad of soul-stirring strings. From out of his mannal (initiatory hut of masculinity), a ktar-drunk and laughing Dudu darts, holding his turgid syrinx in his right hand, and slips into Atta’s lupan (initiatory hut of womaninity) to frolic around our “altar’s pivot and push” (canto 5). And Atta, too, tipsy and giggling but in no way wishing to avoid what’s bound to occur, darts from lupan to mannal to savor, “with no pausing, no panting, six pan-piping bards” (fourth canto). Fulcral act of schizolinguistic improvisation (“chant a loping, swinging translation,” fourth canto again). Rock hips back and forth in an upwardly spiral liminal invocation of ktar-strings’ “liquid music of wild pitch” (canto two) conflating ktar-syrup’s vibrant intoxication that sings in your brain (as all initiands know) with a ritual incantation’s conjunction: joyous, cordial, uncalculating, guarding-against-nothing, unpaid-for, gratuitous, virtuous, capital, high-class fucking! This is our tradition. Pussy down swallow off.
§ 190.
Flat against rough wood slats. — And should I kip down amid ruins and stars? Sad hollow orbits of a paunchy old man proud of his mind’s round void. Judging this rancid futon-floor pad as mustily happy from which to draw a living. Boots crunch ordovician mud atop shards of glass and rusty strands of iron. Vodka rum gin cognac cans of tobacco and hash. Cartons of ammunition. Arrows. A stack of crossbows. All sorts of shiny sharp and fluffy billowy or tight-bound knots of stuff for knitting. Ruby, sky-color, viridian, obsidian, crimson, gold, and, why not, baby-shit brown. Disgust and distrust will dismiss any fair woman’s talk in a pinch of survival. This skirt’s not arguing. And books. Gassy pallid innards flopping out from an ill-fitting sandwich of paltry boards. My third or fifth or first night, I think. Wind-torn strips of black plastic trash bags caught in that courtyard oak’s blank arms. In various lurid positions. Sprawling on crumbling stairways or rain-slick chunks of paving block. Blunt shock of a gigantic abattoir of books along Owlstain’s famous sun-struck coast. Coming down from that cliff. It was my sixth or fourth day. A mass burial ground of books. Spilling out of that burning villa’s cyclopic doorway and bloodshot windows. Bright book backs showing limply through dull flinty chalky sticky sand. I hadn’t thought war could bring so many out of hiding. It was dawn or dusk, I think. Cold wind. Salty foam. Crows and rats. It was all my fault. I finish him off by hand.
§ 191.
Towards a schizomythology of ritual (IX). Handy histrionics signifying what. — Aunt Smaragdina’s Parandrus, a “socio-physiological” play in four not-so-long acts, by Larry Lath. Lost in London circa 1926 and found again by Ouida Willoughby Johnson and put into its first Flouzianian film production as A Tara T. Dirty™ with additional book, words, and music by Ouida Willoughby Johnson and Tony Hamiltonian in, on, around, and throughout our Playground of Taboo, Sunday, July 13, 2003, at Glamporium, Owlstain, with:

Arnaut Raymond as Vivian Darkbloom, a dashing young scholar with a slight limp (war wound); Gloria Galvari as his Aunt Smaragdina, a lascivious conciliatrix; Maryam Ravigiallo as Darkbloom’s first-cousin Nirusa, a brassy slut; Atoca Inhart as Nirusa’s half-sibling Oria, a buxom hussy; Gasa Albiano as Oria’s third-cousin Norlia, a vivacious bint; Ouida Willoughby Johnson as Darkbloom’s doxy-in-waiting Ada, a sultry harlot; Inuhka Bloip as Darkbloom’s back-wing paramour Saian, a bibulous trollop; Sagarch Flawndol as Aran Tron, a slangy liar known globally by his nom d’appui, Gals Saliba; Dado Udidi as his paranymph Babur, a shy (or sly) lascar; Djuma and Rick Kidjaki as Osnak and Ubag, a curious pair of “sociophysiologists;” Tony Hamiltonian as Xwarpo, a sycophantic old minion; and various books as Bibliography, a windy list of works. Don’t mind my copy’s bloodstains, burns, and various rancid waxy marks of firm fond fondling [1].

  1. You’ll also find an off-print of our script in our city’s SCAT from July 16, 2003..
§ 192.
Topos. — And should I hoard imagination’s void? Bound within that horror violation’s child was hiding. Call back blood’s fiction to transfix a patch of sand.
§ 193.
Ludict is light. — And should I draw just any conclusion from that quill of unspun logic? I’m not afraid to touch it. Dizzy wisp of waking. On that rim of possibility past awaits futurity’s shadow. Timing is all. Punch through that drum-taut skin. Fist balks.
§ 194.
This art of choosing plural stuns. — And should I lock away my soul’s infatuation? That word again: blind, dumb, blank, vicarious. From what you can’t stand to look at, craft a world so proud, my only author. Raw languorous hurt.
§ 195.
Pussy down swallow off. — And should I button my gold silk bra, my saffron skirt-flap, my goatskin boots, my bosom-tight blouson, my thick wool coat, my fat lip? Though you may think I was just playing with my pussy, I shall put it thus. It was raining. Was it? I was living in Paris. Was I? Sharing a dortoir with Inuhka. Who? I was in thrall to Victor Lucas. Who? And crafting bold artificial? stowaway throwaway? lyrical imitations plagiarisms? of that man’s suicidal lucidity. What? In your mind, no doubt, all this is simply shorthand for not saying that I was doling out blowjobs aux WC du bistrot au coin. I was thinking, in a word, that I too was half an artist of sorts. I cut my black bangs straight and short. It’s all my fault, though just as natural. Praising my pashmina scarf. It’s your own damn throat, you know. Pliant lathplaint. Sylvan trauma. Bucolic bitch:

for Inuhka “Saian” Bloip

Want a thrill?

Your thumb for an onion,

Top totally wank or wack

But for a sort of joint

Of skin,

A skirt-flap for hunting johns —

Blanc, marron, safran, mort.

And now for that plush crimson plunging.

Small plump immigrant,

This Fukari’s waxing your quim.

Your crinkly cock’s comb

Rug rolls and parts

To display your throbbing bright clitoral knot.

I won’t chomp too hard on it, though,

Pulling my pink fist,

Gritting my punchy jaw.

This party rocks!

Out of a gap, a void, a hollow hub, a slash

A million moonmad warriors run,

Turncoats all.

Gay, or not gay? you ask.

Ohhhh my

Womaninity — I’m not illin’,

I’m just tanking up on pills and rum and vodka and cognac and crack and crystal crank and shit to kill

This thin

Panting parchy rutty goatish sort of joy and pain.

It’s Sappho’s turn, now,

You garlickmunching bint —

This stain on my

Saffron skirt,


Flows soooo strong and dark and now that

I’m balling you,

My cardiovulval pulp

Confronts its own small

Mill of aphasia —

Oh my, how you can hump!

Skullshot slut,

Thirsty dirty thigh girl,

Thumb snatch stunt stump [1].

  1. During my sojourn, I had occasion to put this lyric out in a small journal for Parisian post-patriots of Appalachian origin, Por Malo Lado.
§ 196.
Not at a loss for stock words. — And should I obstruct this school for liars? It’s not about what you say, but how you chant it. Writhing drunk umbilical shaft.
§ 197.
Not all that important. — And should I inflict significant falsity on dying’s stubborn act? Concoct scarcity. Mimic mistrust. Conduct a constant flow of playful gloating. Outwit satyric arrow. Shoot up cynical shadow. Guard against laughing. Pick a living mouth to stuff with goals, aspirations, rational days and nights of passion, orgasmic backroom abortions, joyous hacking away at hands and arms and thighs, satisfying stitching shut of uvular vulvas, glorious blastular birthstubs. Work a thick thumb into that rising cropjam.
§ 198.
Third-hand plagiary by anticipation. — And should I vow that all my scrub oak narrow thigh squats may contract burbling hopping and cardinal-bright to match tight and bucking his oh so loving soulful gallop? Tar-post abrasions. Crow this public adoration from tundra down to plain. Sultry shack. Nails in wrists. Far and far panning back from that tin roof a jacking brown mountain jay soars through rippling sky.
§ 199.
Growth of mind. — And should I ramify trauma’s plot? Imbrication of truistic monads. Caught slaving at that shorn woman’s poor part totally out of control. Shot was bad too soon. As it was cast in that axonal chart. Trout, salmon, catfish, bass. I said I would, and so I will. For him, it was just fiction. Or nothing.
§ 200.
Bark from vision I forgot to strip. — And should I stultify slut’s flight? Cling to what coming through against that sky I was fighting. Liana thorns and slashing. Dogma’s disfiguration.
§ 201.
From my body’s tight labyrinth. — And should I uglify this pliant gift? Know that it constricts. Small action to graph that liquid crotch’s flair. Thick and lucid with a dash of thorn-torn skirt. And dribbling out your poison stain. Add it to my dictionary. Not just any fair word could prick a smooth thigh’s nimbus. Cuts blood from skin, bulging fat from flaccid organ. Scarify and burn.
§ 202.
Though this world is crumbling. — And should I tarry fondly that proposition’s back-door howl? Noon’s daily downpour constrains capricious turmoil, mirrors a distant simian cry. Oh, so spiritual and uplifting! Your own dull opinion grows moist just thinking about that crafty word. Struggling to avoid truth’s turgid disputation. Vocalic assumption. You’ll allow it as I told you. I drank that pain.
§ 203.
Inconspicuous victim. — And should I frown music to a standstill touch? Sitting in that hall of dumb solidarity. Your only slow custom’s not just to chaunt out a lull of dull crying now, is it? Rough wood slats. Vigorous bliss jam rings arousal’s pitch. A show of irrational humanitarianism. Digging down to star shadow, scraping away at light. Tin roof rain lifts wind.
§ 204.
Slut’s jargon. — And should I ask vanity to unlock catastrophic climax from glad pornosophy’s trickbag? I was simply not about to abandon that thirsty mountain path. Dog blood, man blood, and a tuft of cunty fur that armadillo was rooting around in. Rusty handcuffs. Mossy hillock. Fantail gash of mud and crotch. Tarantula hawk wasp patrols a patch of hussy’s pain. Kill follows climb. Sink swallow cloud suck wax and scar.
§ 205.
Primal violation. — And should I mount with a collapsing wincing groan that dirty old ludict’s clitalysis? Patrolius, Ionis Astra, sixth canto plus two: Having rambunctiously thrust his capricious and lyrical snout into our hoary (oh my! how long your tradition is, and strong!) shack of communal sacrality (‘lupanar;’ third canto), our syrinx-clutching holy bard’ Dudu succumbs timorously to our promiscuous invitation (fifth canto plus two). A most (and so moist!) alluring vision now confronts his virgin imagination (which vision, in both bards’ imaginations (author’s rhyming with author’s animal’s, natch), schizomythically mimics a moaning grammar-school girl’s sublunary point of initiatory pulsation in that hut of haptic truth. This sultry harlot’s custom follows orgasm’s grammar. Lay is law and law is lay and all that shit. Moonmad sprawl of quaking thighs. Don’t pardon your hard-on, man, put it in, put it in! Plump my waist pops. Pronominal shift from ‘our’ to ‘my’ limns a structural hint: Dudu’s contrapuntal soliloquy (Cantos 2, 4, 6, 8, and 10) follows our far-from-virginal corybantic chorus (Cantos 1, 3, 5, 7, and 9) until final, or last, (11th) canto rings (sings?) a codal (caudal?) harmony (astronomy?) of tonic (chthonic?) unison. Put it in, I say, put it in! Put it into our conid world’s contraction, our vacuous pupil’s dilation (wink, wink!). Finish by writing it all down again? Start by taking it all in up to my wrist-thin hilt! Giddyap, boy, giddyap! My book, sir — as if you didn’t know by now — is an oral book. Oral contract (and oral contact!). Oral commission (and oral transmission (and oral intromission!)). Any quick thrust will fill it. Gosh, but your thing’s almost as thick as it! My waist, sir, my waist. Dusky splay of wood-strong hands parts a glossy calyx. Limpid sap drips. Milky sap rips a gash in that orchid. Ivory and pink, tawny and ruby, mahogany and coal. Craft-avid lips suck a lucky girl’s soft buds into mouthlush points of hot horn. Damply panting atop and among and amidst oh how many sprightly giggling sticky (‘thick with rainbow snail blood’) ritualistically squirming young things in that musky gloom, his autonomous passion throbbing convincingly, Dudu digs in:
Flap again your slow bright wings, holy star Io, plump moanzy
Dancing drunk and languorous across Atta’s ravishing sky —
Thick with rainbow snail blood, six rising suns strum through young Ishtar’s
Downy floss: raw pulp of that lupanar fruit sticks in my fangs.
§ 206.
From childhood into dusk. — And should I pardon a rapist’s approval? That pod’s fruit will abort it. I was pulling my hair out. As if stung by palm thorns. Or marry root to claw of that prodigal liana. Bird’s foot infusion. Trying to clutch that mass of dangling Gongora blossoms. Habit’s not so difficult a proof that you can’t stick your tart vivid hog plum into that orchid’s pink. Root’s profit and third bark’s shaving will ward off shadow-loving worms (Ascaris umbraphilia) and bashful fungi. All good simians swarm with ticks.
§ 207.
With grass stains and mud. — And should I jazz up my ninth divastigation’s last ludict by writing a story about how I stood in a giant oak’s dry shadow of flaking bark hairy with gray pubic moss waiting for that morning’s third downpour to stop and what I saw and did and thought as I did that? Introduction. Sadly scanning canopy-ward through a pair of cast-off binoculars. Military surplus, you might say. Snatch bounty from a good man blown. Rising action. I catch sight, high up, of a, how you say, mono congo (Alouatta palliata L.) swinging happily by its tail. Fatuous twin icons of gravity-bound machismo droop stallion-proud and sway. Snowfur crotchfruit. Rhythmic dangling down. Conflict. Nor fold of thigh so alluring. Pluck munch toss away figs falling falling. I was squatting also. Hiking up my skirt according to provocation’s law. What law? Hitching it, too, if that philosophy could warrant it. Angular satisfaction. A cynical, what you say, mono cariblanco (binomial classification lacking) looks on curious and unafraid. No coughing no barking no hissing no grimacing. Just a vibrant hollow laryngal clicking that builds up to a rain-awaking howl. Climax. (Slowly now, with incantatory diction.) Móno móno cáriblánco, dón’t you fínd it annóying? Find what annoying, Ouida? That swarm of buzzing flying things, you know, wasps, gnats, assassin bugs, and so on. No, I don’t find it annoying, Ouida. Do ticks fly? No. But I saw a wasp, a tiny tiny tiny wasp, all crimson and black, that had no wings, though, gosh, could it sting! Anti-climax. Just kidding. I don’t know of any simian that can stand a thorough soaking, do you? Solution. I was, how you say, shaving my pussy. No? I was shaping my principality of totally stupid. Why you laugh? I was sharing my patch of Mimosa pudica, Tithonia rotundifolia, Hillia triflora, Poikilacanthus macranthus, Phytolacca dioica, and Drymonia (not a pun, mind you: any Mona I know is always dripping with sap) spp. with: Falling action. A diurnal sphingid moth. A lost hummingbird with a throat of livid ruby and wings of brilliant viridian. A tiny drab frog (as big as that wasp I told you about). An oscillation of arachnids. A grunting coati with an ophidian tail writhing wrathfully, vainly, in its jaws. A slimy black flat worm with piping of gold in pursuit of — plant blood? animal blood? my blood? To latch on to just about any living thing, I thought, would satisfy its aching lust for nourishing sap. Including various ants and rolypoly pill bugs. How you say. A shy phasmid. Summary. How long? Moral. About two hours.
Antlion. From a photograph shot by Otto X. Goldbarg, c. 1924–1927, of a Mountain Fukari clay bowl (#2004.24.13595) found with Ossuary 162 in Room 21 of Swarts Ruin, Grant, Wyoming, and on display at Harvard’s Display Institution of Old Folks and Tribals in Boston, Mass.
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