Tuesday, November 17, 2009

FUCK DEATH

for lu

Sucking, I open the door awaiting one another. Looking down from landing, on silent demise, stair well. She sleeps in a curl. Lurking somewhere, are you? Beating it, I try to include. But that glittering ball you throw up at me, impedes my advance. Subsiding, I sooth myself into a nocturnal hand, the touch turns my stomach. Early morning hours hold out a certain frisson. She is still sleeping nose tucked into armpit. It haunts you too, doesn't it? Every time you emerge from the subway station, sure which way to turn in your lightness. The dying are so rigorous. Ripping out the fabric no longer thinking about the lost affection or perishing time.

The cliff which kittens which heartbeat.

"right"
"we'll clear out"
"if everybody"
"right"
"we'll clear out"
"right"
"you think we can get that far"
"if everybody"
"right, right"
"and besides we'll steal"
"we'll clear out, right"
"right"
"you think we can get that far"
"if everybody"
"and besides, we'll clear out"
"right"
"right, we'll steal something"
"think we can get that"
"steal something if everybody"
"right"

It must have been midnight, starting up with that whirring noise, the inner life game had begun, we waited behind the sink, we got dressed, under the staircase, that valley of desolation, we walked quickly, no on was surprised, hardly, we hurried along the road, sly gestures pointing the way. You sing: "I am here, now, reaching the end. If possible."

In the end, the awful parts, more dreaded in the past, haunting itself and animated by these parts, past, were a solace, soothing the bitterness in a lull. Those times, sordid shadows delimiting the incorporeal sluggishness. It's not just what they say that drives me toward superhuman invective. And then, sweet kitten, you call me your little flower and I melt, kitten, you murmur at me, calling me at tramp, turning me inside out with tenderness.

So that will, kitten, you select, willingly, you will to be willed, imploring, will-less, your eyes, the record, the sight of them delicious, solemnly creased. You want to burn it up, eyes asking "What do you want" hardly audibly tone. With a vehemence that stirs your heart, you admit, on the harm ahead, you fling your oblivion, all they suggested and contained, your peculiar obligation, freely, whence you will.

Your certain abandon was proof, furtive good wishes being sent from far away. You whisper to me, a disappointed squeak. I study you in a constant state of arousal, kitten, alternating with shame, your fawn bracelet has exhausted the terms of our evening together, I used them for you. Doesn't it haunt you too? That shadow we both drown in, extravagant in gesture. We apprentice ourselves to it. You let it be, sly tonight, buried during the day.

I walk out into the nocturnal street, nocturnal and silent in a manner. I wait. Feeling inside and out for weather and sounds. Directing my attention with recognition, aim. You have been waiting for a long time. If possible. The nocturnal's composed of hatch marks. Listing. Counting. No passion or expectation in awaiting, the train approaches and its coming sound pulls us in, intensity and push, you board. Waiting for one another. Waiting in front, we rendezvous before us, stand with each other. In front and before.

-Jocelyn Saidenberg