by Zoey Greenwald
from issue 03
from issue 03
YOU ARE HAVING SEX WITH A STRANGELY PRECOCIOUS CHILD.
WHICH HAS CRASHED THROUGH THE COOL INDIGO WINDOW OF IMAGINED ELIZBAETHAN SENSIBILITIES OF WHICH YOU WERE NEVER TOLD. OF WHICH THEY NEVER BOTHERED TO TELL YOU. OF WHICH THE RIBBONS NEVER REACHED YOU PREFERRING AND NEVER OPTING OUT OF YARN, STRING, TWINE, LACES.
YOU
WHO HAS NEVER WOVEN. WHICH HAS LICKED WETLY THE PAGES OF SMALL MIRRORS AND THEIR CRUMBS; WOMEN AND THEIR FROWNS. WHICH HAS FOLLOWED YOU BLINDLY INTO THE CORNER OF THE ROOM AND RESTED SO SUBTLE ON THE LEDGE AND SMOKED WITH YOU MEANING THERE IS VALOR IN FINALLY BEING ALLOWED INTO THE REALM OF LIVING.
LIKE:FINALLY!
THE REALM OF LIVING!
WHICH HAS BALANCED SOFTNESS AGAINST VAPOR LIKE GHOSTS OR A BEDSHEET, HAS POURED THE VINEGAR INTO THE BAKING SODA, HAS BLED THROUGH HER PANTS, HAS BEEN VERY BRAVE. YOU BATHE HER WHICH HAS BEEN SCRATCHED BY THE OCEAN AND ITS CREATURES AND HER ELECTROMAGNETIC NODES BELONGING TO CERTAIN UNDERGROUND NETWORKS. WHICH HAS LEARNED WITHOUT MAKING ANY KNOWING. WHICH HAS LEARNED SELFISHLY. WHICH HAS INTERRUPTED WITHOUT MEANING TO VERY IMPORTANT TELECOMMUNICATIVE BUSINESS INTERACTIONS, WHICH HAS NOT EVER LOOKED. FIRST. YOU WHO HAVE NOT EARNED THE TRUST OF ANY ANIMAL COMPANION, YOU WHO LIES WHO HAS ALWAYS EATEN THE RIND LIKE PART OF CATTLE, PIG, THE END OF WHICH IS CATACLYSM BELOW THE BELT BELOW THE LAME LEVEL OF YOUR LAME HEARING. I IMAGINE MYSELF A SCULPTOR. THERE ARE THIN SHEETS OF CLAY OVER MY KNEES AND FOREARMS. THERE IS DUST ON MY SLACKS. THERE IS DUST IN MY LUNGS DUST NOT PETTY ASH. WHICH MEANS I TOO HAVE BEEN CREATED. I TOO
feel that I do not have a mother and also that I am not quite allowed to kill my-self. The feeling is insanely sexual. I have been punished for living without origin by this feeling-situation which is DEVASTATION. This feeling like a burn, the feeling of injury with-out any blood. My bladder is full, and in danger of leaking. It is the infection of this orifice which will kill me, its proximity to the void which is sex, this sex which requires filth, this filth which colonizes the orifice. This is what it is to have been given a body against creation. This sex which is void; leaking feeling.
post-coitally i speak like a madman:
LIKE:
THE REALM OF LIVING!
YOU SEE A GIRL WHO LOOKS WRONG HOLDING ANYTHING IN HER MOUTH.
YOU HOLD ANYTHING IN YOUR MOUTH.
YOU HOLD ANYTHING IN YOUR MOUTH.
WHICH HAS BALANCED SOFTNESS AGAINST VAPOR LIKE GHOSTS OR A BEDSHEET, HAS POURED THE VINEGAR INTO THE BAKING SODA, HAS BLED THROUGH HER PANTS, HAS BEEN VERY BRAVE. YOU BATHE HER WHICH HAS BEEN SCRATCHED BY THE OCEAN AND ITS CREATURES AND HER ELECTROMAGNETIC NODES BELONGING TO CERTAIN UNDERGROUND NETWORKS. WHICH HAS LEARNED WITHOUT MAKING ANY KNOWING. WHICH HAS LEARNED SELFISHLY. WHICH HAS INTERRUPTED WITHOUT MEANING TO VERY IMPORTANT TELECOMMUNICATIVE BUSINESS INTERACTIONS, WHICH HAS NOT EVER LOOKED. FIRST. YOU WHO HAVE NOT EARNED THE TRUST OF ANY ANIMAL COMPANION, YOU WHO LIES WHO HAS ALWAYS EATEN THE RIND LIKE PART OF CATTLE, PIG, THE END OF WHICH IS CATACLYSM BELOW THE BELT BELOW THE LAME LEVEL OF YOUR LAME HEARING. I IMAGINE MYSELF A SCULPTOR. THERE ARE THIN SHEETS OF CLAY OVER MY KNEES AND FOREARMS. THERE IS DUST ON MY SLACKS. THERE IS DUST IN MY LUNGS DUST NOT PETTY ASH. WHICH MEANS I TOO HAVE BEEN CREATED. I TOO
feel that I do not have a mother and also that I am not quite allowed to kill my-self. The feeling is insanely sexual. I have been punished for living without origin by this feeling-situation which is DEVASTATION. This feeling like a burn, the feeling of injury with-out any blood. My bladder is full, and in danger of leaking. It is the infection of this orifice which will kill me, its proximity to the void which is sex, this sex which requires filth, this filth which colonizes the orifice. This is what it is to have been given a body against creation. This sex which is void; leaking feeling.
i think they bred me to be a princess.
YOU MOTHER FUCKER.
WHAT WAS IN THE EITHER. YOU SPLIT THE FRAME. YOU DIRTIED THE PLATE. YOU EDDIED THE SIGNAL. YOU SMUDGED THE GLASS. CARELESS. CARELESS. WHICH HAS JUST GOTTEN OUT OF THE BATH. WHICH WAS JUST BORN. OILS. YOU WHO HAS WAS WHAT A SYSTEM, YOU WHO TO WHOM WHICH IS TEARING TEARING TEARING TEARING CURTAINS WIRES ALL OF IT. WHICH IS WET, WHICH IS WET. TELL. TELL. WHAT WAS IN THE ETHER.
YOU MOTHER FUCKER.
WHICH CHOKED LATE ACCOUNTING ON THE LEFT-OVER SUNLIGHT WHICH WENT WAS SKIN IN THE STRIPMALL WHITE AND STRIATED CHALKY HOT BITUMINOUS CARCINOGENIC. WHICH RING-CRACKED THIN WRISTS THIN WHICH WAS JUST BORN JUST PERFORATED. WHICH PHOTOGRAPHED CHICKEN BONES. YOU, DIPPING THE NIGHT IN ITS OWN SOLIDS. SACRILEGE. DEATH. RAPE. WHAT WAS IN THE FILTER. WHAT SECRETED COATING THE INSIDE WHILE THE OUTSIDE DRIED AND CREASED AND BELIEVED IN THE DESERT LIKE MARS. WHAT WAS IT.
WATERS.
PETROLEUM.
PATROL.
DIFFERENCE.
LITURGY.
INSECTS.
FAITH.
LEAFLETS.
RUST.
SPICES.
BONING.
CALAMITY.
LATEX.
DOCUMENTS.
GIVE ME.
I AM A SCULPTOR.
I NEED TO LIVE.
YOU MOTHER FUCKER.
WHICH CHOKED LATE ACCOUNTING ON THE LEFT-OVER SUNLIGHT WHICH WENT WAS SKIN IN THE STRIPMALL WHITE AND STRIATED CHALKY HOT BITUMINOUS CARCINOGENIC. WHICH RING-CRACKED THIN WRISTS THIN WHICH WAS JUST BORN JUST PERFORATED. WHICH PHOTOGRAPHED CHICKEN BONES. YOU, DIPPING THE NIGHT IN ITS OWN SOLIDS. SACRILEGE. DEATH. RAPE. WHAT WAS IN THE FILTER. WHAT SECRETED COATING THE INSIDE WHILE THE OUTSIDE DRIED AND CREASED AND BELIEVED IN THE DESERT LIKE MARS. WHAT WAS IT.
PETROLEUM.
PATROL.
DIFFERENCE.
LITURGY.
INSECTS.
FAITH.
LEAFLETS.
RUST.
SPICES.
BONING.
CALAMITY.
LATEX.
DOCUMENTS.
GIVE ME.
I AM A SCULPTOR.
I NEED TO LIVE.
The image is calling for me, the moving-image. It is calling for me to go-away. And the bareness of me implies. And the height of me implies. The slim cigarette, implying. The express permission, implying. The request, implying. The demand, implying. The regret, implying. The fear, implying. Senseless, taken, gone, away.
Post-coitally I speak like a princess:
I think they bred me to be a madman.
I think they bred me to be a madman.
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