The point might be not to remember, I think. Wait. The point might be at the tip. Very quiet. And uncomfortable. It might take very long, loudly. To get here without. That never knew. Or not slow. Quick. Drip drop faucet. Listen. Hear, also.
Was woman and she ran away. With me. Feet to road dirt concrete hills flatland no sand. Reluctant to recollect delirious travel. Exhaust. When stopped, turned toward and touching. Pulling me into the fold of flesh and body. And held there. Green blades of grass long approach vision up and over, grown. Quiet and brutal up against entrails sucked out. Vacuumed and sad song tears. All up and down to tell no one. Dumping out virtual to pump in void. Excess as excrement and flushed to make invisible. Occult mockery for relic infatuation. Circled ring of my face-shield.
eye echo you.
The Gambler, or The Hanged Man, fell in love with a Whore’s cunt because he was prone to feasting. The Moon was left crying, her two hands tearing at her face. The Gambler, having sworn an oath of secrecy and dedication, laid at his feet the hammer and tongs of the Vulcan, the Cock, and the Wand of Mercury. A recital/catechism:
… Say: “Who…?” … (he is, or you are? ) … “Whereupon…? … (then/thereupon?) … “Loss…?” … “it was the Night lost/the Moon?” … He will say: “Tell of your Father…” … (death/pit/the rock?) … Now speak: “Why…?” … (red, or sharp and clawing?) … Spoken: “Now, Savior…” … (the Father, or sharp and clawing?) … Say: “And in the Heavens…” … (the Heavens are falling/have fallen/fell?) … He will say: “What are we…?” … (a lion’s head/the meat/the flesh?) … And speaking: “Initiate the…?” … (seven/haft) … Spoken: “They are…?”
They are whoever you want them to be.
I did not see it there at first against the semen-soaked silk lining leftovers of a last night love affair. I am aware that I should be suddenly on edge. Here it is: that which is coming has long spider fingers and it reaches for me in the darkness. Tiny, coarse hairs brush against my body. Hungry mouth to nipple. It is a movement towards me. It is confirmed by me. It has been summoned for me. It is a feeling that grows inside the pit of the stomach, unavoidable. Unmanageable. A rape produced pregnancy.
It conceals itself against me, like the unavoidable occurrence of time. To position myself against this is only to fail. So I invite it in like a parasite. Does it care who it possesses as long as it is in possession? I do not need to rebel against what is unknown because nothing is absolute. It is both here and it is not.
We are body parts in plastic wrap. We are very close; we distort. Maybe we are dripping with neon colors. Or, perhaps, we are in black and white. I find the simulated color patterns extremely enjoyable and so I fail to remove myself from (t)his context. Artistic pleasure is best served in aborted silence. (The gallery white walls whisper, too.)
If I find comfort inside of this abjection I dwell in, then I can finger the fringes without cause for alarm because I believe the edge cannot overtake the center. Am I wrong? Let me speak in abject tones: he is the bastard son of a woman that kept him only to be her lover. Let me clarify: he is trapped inside a maternal refusal for release and stifled longing. A mother-tongue-love-fucker.
I am aware that he has made me less, because he takes what I give. For me this is real, but for him this is only a fantasy. When awareness is given, it comes as it should without apology. There are things that are meant to be controlled, robotic emotions and technological confirmations, but phantom specters haunt without will. They haunt in desire, so that these words repeated inside my skull while I persisted to pull at the corners of my fingernails until I drew blood. To dig deeper is to remove memory from skin.
I am the filthy body that seeks affirmation inside the arms of the never there. I am the hair that wishes to be pulled and the mouth that wishes to be covered with hands that do not exist. I am the echo chamber whore that repeats in repetition. I am the animal in demarked territory circling around the event. I am that they, reach out and touch me now.
Did you want penetration? Investigation? This is more hardcore than bruised and bondage photography. Fuck the punctum, it can’t move me anymore. Numb is the finger-bang-wound of aesthetic stimulation. Besides, even the Fascists knew that language is the house of Being. Let this hit you now.
… But not all at once. That would be too easy. I want that there should be work for this. Some exponentially servile form of human labor. I cannot force-feed the tube of existence with words. Besides, they die as soon as they roll off my tongue. (This commentary is very politically relevant, don’t you think?)
We should understand this. Since we have nothing to help us understand this. I should not be revealing anything we did not already know. It would be inauthentic if you were not concerned. Allow me to enframe the moment …
But I can’t tell you these things if I am choking on your cock so let me wipe the spit off of the corner of my mouth before I french-kiss you with my elusive tongue. Shall we probe this more thoroughly? If he is real, or he is only partially real, then he comes with restrictions and rules. I do not have the code to be granted access. Yet I am certain that his eyes exist, though I fail to recall if they are black or blue, or both. If he is real and I am fucked inside his apartment, then we fuck inside his apartment. We surround each other with art, Satanism, and tattoos. There, inside velvet and meticulously placed artwork, we are.
If I speak and there is no reply, that is, if there is no answer, then I feel unclean; I feel as if I am drowning in a sea of piss. I want to chew the telephone deceiver, or his mouth, with razor sharp teeth. Do I exist if I am not received? As punishment, I conjure up the memory of his mouth that offers me silence and sex. A ruqya; his bed undulates above the wooden floors of his apartment. Our bodies contort. The coordinations are not forgotten. But to give this way, further: I am (not intrinsically) his, to have.
…..And I am reminded of staring at V’s eyelashes as he sleeps as if they held behind them the answer to some ancient treasure and I worshiped at the altar of his mouth. Into these lips: I insert my tongue like a worm like a parasitic-amoeba-cell-slithering its way across the terrain of his language looking for a home in the soft and fleshy caverns. Could I, even if I wanted to, wash the taste of him away? Sometimes when we kissed, I would imagine the residue of another woman’s cunt on his lips. Some sweet fragrant potent juice that he had been lapping at and kept some to bring home to offer me caught…..