Wednesday, August 14, 2013


Pussy jerky dry. HOLOCAUST FLUFF she says. You don't write that kind of stuff.

When my mother bleeds she likes to have a steak. I like steak. I like the taste. I like it very rare. I like a  rare steak with salt and pepper. I like it lean, I like it red. My mother has red hair, red-orange, and she wears lipstick, orange-red. I have her wide feet; they redden when we wear high heels, which we do, because we are small women, and because a small woman in heels gets further than a small woman alone. I know. When i was little and did not want to eat what was on my plate, they told me that if a horse fell down in the ghetto people ran out of their apartments with knives. Hunger. What does one thing have to do with another.

I like the sight of my own blood. It makes me feel alive. I like a blood drive, and to feel the tube warming up with blood; to watch it fill the plastic pouch. Health. A packet of my inestimable substance. I think about what cannot be contained in this world. A box of night? Compounds: Human. Boxcar.

There is a stupidity in the conflation I am in the act of, cow with cattle car and mother with me, cunt and carcass and book and stomach. But this stupidity, if it belongs to me, is also exterior to me. Humans got brutalized by being packed into cattle cars and dying in them or by them which in turn humanizes, necessarily, the suffering of the beasts for which cattle cars were made. Then what. Signification is incestuous, iterative, autofellating. I am not sure this is living. I am not so sure that there is any.

Last year I found myself in Switzerland kind of unexpectedly. I was there for school. I didn't have any money but a Stafford Loan came through just in time. In Switzerland they have banks, cuckoo clocks, mountains, and cows. I was studying in a little tourist town high in the Alps. For a week I couldn't sleep. I listened to Jane Eaglen sing Wager on my iTunes and looked at the hard Matterhorn and the permafrost, which they say is melting, in strange blue light. I had the shits. All of us did. So much yogurt, so much cream. In class, all you could hear was the professor's voice and the gurgling digestive systems of twenty-odd people. It was hard for us Americans to assimilate so much unctuous dairy product. In Switzerland they have little vacuum-sealed pots of cream, like the cups of creamer you get with diner coffee in the States. Last year in Switzerland all the little pots of cream had trains on them. This year it was flowers, whatever. But last year.

Different colored train cars, and some cabooses.

I remarked upon them to a few of my professors. Using the local vernacular, I suggested that this conjunction or superimposition of the locomotive and the lactate suggested that technology always already bears the mark of the maternal. Or vice-versa. That transportation has become the womb of the world, the mother of us all. Like in Proust. A modernist idea. Glaucous ova thinking. Whatever. Everybody was like, yeah.

What suckles, what fuels, what lulls you to sleep. GO. GO.

If the style is too much of an achievement then the edifice becomes what it is, alone, marooned inside of the real. You have to fuck with everything.

Medicated lines. No but the ducts and tubes need your health and have to get rearranged because you were already unnatural. LOVE. Beckett is so complete he is a joke. Stay GO holey or
INCORPORATE. A nice person. Aren't you. How badly do you need the book to estrange itself from "life" so that you can stand it, or how badly does a narrative long to be beautiful. What does poesy care. Some flotsam on top of the lives of nice people. I see only the particulars, and, of these, only the particulars that concern or serve me. I want to live in a world in which it is possible for me to be LOVED WAKE UP and in which I do not hate myself for existing. I want to live in a world in which everybody I know is not on pills because of their feelings POEM GET UP but I know what it is to want to die. I have got to have the smell of semen on my skin GET UP GET UP POEM and not be afraid of everything easy like feeling and be able to keep on dying going on and capable of FEEL UP UP UP UP

Her belly sawed open and steaming, and stupid waving legs even though her neck GET UP ends up in a hole. The steaming world, the annals' recitation, our pleasure as a ball. I actually want to be a woman even though I am supposed to be one.

They have a melancholy aspect, the translators. Even in health. I think that the "long relaxed curve of time" of which John GET UP Ashbery has written could have something to do with the gradualness of the way in which their spines decline and then rise a bit to meet their haunches. Imagine them stacked each upon each like bells in a carillon. Imagine that the word that sounded itself in what rang on the holy day was GOAD, GOAD.

Even I can figure that a body is in a way ultimately an INCENSE. Likewise, pornography has no smell, i.e., NO BODY. The day after I cut garlic my hand smells. The day after I hold a cock I smell it. Many happy returns. Transmission device: the hand. I am not a book UP UP UP

-Ariana Reines