Saturday, September 02, 2006

mal au coeur 1 - body

Beneath is BODY: fertile as totality, a sensory abdomen, your proton-pump progesterone dissolving into mine. Who owns the beurocratic everyday? Material inserted from her night [vultures etc] into my crampy world matrix. Psychosomatic [incomplete] you are often scientific but attempt, diffusely, to exist within pagan counternarratives. In this ongoing laxative world there is deniable communal dependence, as well as tequila to lighten the mood. Antacids to linger in two subjects of division, professor to my thrush of longing, hoarding 90-95% of my anxiety, implications that aim hollow in bars and pubs, part-artist and moving towards menopause. I would swallow the nonrepresented content of your Darko days, only to be happily senseless and performing sexual processes. Your killing hound-dog and your neutralized soul and your crushed pituitary gland, all gone. Copyedited interpretations of your thoughts, cached. Clambering over to express mainstream [dis-]taste, you’re just frowning, unfamiliar with the art of groping. That gallery, though, was apparently the place where you chose to digest “life”, - [yoghurt, aeroplanes, all that shit] – and your boyfriend too with his tender impotent PM identity. Heart is now a network of scorched hair and dust and my cybermenstrual hormones are clots in the tufts, rotting in the reproducibility of my own rage and fear, merely the consequence of everyday poison and excess. Over-the-counter grids of doubt and omission. You have designed every action-still of my disintegration, chaque jour a blushing crucifixion of caffeinated artistry. Dream of us on the bed, experimenting with sensation ‘b’ and regurgitating prayers onto the duvet, far away from gestures of the clinical [both my puberty and your whitish-grey shadow of a pregnancy filed under discrete subdirectories] germinating information as “faith” and bathing in the acid light of migraines. Swabbed like political witches, bookmarkable and “yeasty”, mistakes blot our soft Fridays. Small wet-body, made night-black, licked like Situationist candy. Body – body made from Teflon and seaweed-swaddling, 24 hour fibre people pricked by me and others. Bored of gross-outs and painful women. Alien tongue with a spearmint texture, fatty overtime fantasies, pillowhugging of course. In part would like to be neatly gone, no funeral-song or memory, in part would like to be grinding on buses or at least eat fibre products soaked in dull green dairy and really taste. Climax cut thyroid-wise, scratching out of own skin. And if I should return, washed up like some administrative necessity? Silent printer-friendly skin, a doorway of disgust, how HIV of you. Kneading incalculable flesh of us, stomping it into the ground – history, identity, all gone because there’s a live wire from calf to femur to kidney and lung, molar, pancreas, palate and cortex that’s buzzing you in neon and it’s never going to stop. Desire – as is – all [indiscreetness], actually closer to a thin strain of song.

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