at large, this looming thing with its age and weight and a populace that goes off in all directions. it’s been years driving through the city at night. a slalom course of broken streets, desperate cabbies and workmen just beginning their night. people meandering, lazy drunk walks. every other block is being repaired, under construction. over constructed, the city steals the night, it grows over its people. i feel the urge to dodge and cut across town and say, ‘look here, this was where i was born’ or ‘look, that’s where i saw my first new york apartment: bathtub doubled as kitchen sink, communal bathroom but bring your own toilet paper please’, or say ‘look, this is where i fell in love with the night, this is where i learned to dance alone and not give a fuck about it’ . to see my home as it was, as it never was, as it will always be.
wild joy to be in the heart of this mad beast once again.
Category Archives: frags
abandoned pieces, fragments, scraps
how dark you really are
and in the night it all comes back to haunt you, a pressure from within, just below the ribs, at the cusp of the sternum. you wonder how dark you really are, how black your soul. shouldn’t you embrace all fear then, relish in all your insecurities, find such acute pleasure in the banalities of your day-to-day? (hadn’t you even written, ‘evil is banal’?)
instead thoughts sweet and insipid. ebb and flow of murk and whimsy. something clingy and cloyingly tempting, pushing forward, pushing through. you are deathly afraid because you wonder, when will i stop thinking this way, when will the evil pass? as if it was a virus, a stomach flu, instead of the cancer that it is. this fountain of malaise with you, this well-spring.
to keep them from it, to protect them, when you really want to pass it on. to spread the wealth of the dark, to teach how to be evil because the fucking world really is this way, without code, without order, without color. all skin and wounds, all jagged mouths and smeared lips.
if we were not the clowns, then all this would be some hell of a circus.
monster
i am a monster. i want it all, no matter the cost. i want the fury and the peace, i want the love and the hate. i want the clarity of utter self-destruction and the banality of suburban boredom. i want to be domesticated and out of control. i want to love and to beat out of anyone any love they have for me. i want the appearance of civility while digging a knife into my thigh. i want to thrash about the room and toss everything asunder. i want everything spotless, immaculate and in its place. i want nothing to change but i cannot continue with the way things are. i want a violent end, i want a slow beginning. i am monster who wants no bounds.
we run amok
we run amok in the world. we portray who we are and make portrayals of what we see. we carry them around. they are never what they are. loose and rabid, the roam, they jostle, they grow. words, scents, gestures get tacked on. who are you? you have to ask, who are you?
everything is just a shell, some inner thing hardening and softening the exterior in turn. never clear as glass, only enough to see the shape, the shade of a color. you can even point to yourself and say, “this is it, what you see is what you get.” but we have no real idea what they see. we have no fucking clue how they are looking.
maybe it’s a vying for a certain kind of attention, a certain attenuation, a common frequency where the outside meets the inside, the context fits the place, the present settles its debt with the past. maybe its the vying from all sides, the push and pull, and the accumulation of experience that dictates this has all been done before and we know better: there is only fear and disappointment, only the chasm, the gap, the distance is real, nothing else.
for the briefest moment i think i’ve tuned into her and i see something clearly. something pure.
it is, of course, still a matter of debate, after all this time, what i actually see.
some assembly required
some assembly required of this. what you said, a doorway, your foot turning on its toes, the feel of my hand along your arm, a bulb of dried paint, an uneven blind, the biting of your lip.
some of this needs to be put together. frozen icicles sharp, dust racing the floor, my breathing, the small of your back, stuck door jamb, loose moldings, saying ‘please’ too quickly, too soon.
here is something interesting too: the idea of telling something in complete scattershot, almost kaleidoscope, the idea being that the mundane details of the room add to whatever is happening to these two people, where it looks like one of them is leaving the other and the other wants them to stay. so the ‘assembly required’ is both the narrative and them, obviously.
paper sex
the page always beckons but pushes away. Like a twat, like a pussy denying being denied. The page is like a pussy that doesn’t want to be open or folded, neither torn nor cut. but you can push on it, leaves marks across it. let it everyone know you’ve been there.
And stroking the keyboard is like her hand on your cock, sliding palm up along your balls, the fingers dancing along the tips, making words out of your dick, making your dick say things. making it difficult to understand the difference between the idea and the grammar.
the need to go about
the need to go about the grind, pushing it, like a forehead against the bars, the pipes. like rubbing rust against the knuckles. the need to make it through the grind, to make it matter, like tightening teeth.
as if there is an other side, a way through. as if there was respite. ever the quandry. he says, “wow. you obsess”
you bet your ass i do. i commit. extreme. i ponder it all around the gums, i pluck it out, i study it, run under my chin.
this is what you do to find a pace, a rhythm, a way of going about. like listening for the beat before the leg lifts from the floor, before the toe taps. it’s incredibly awkward until it’s there. and finding it again and again, like hands in dirty laundry if you can stand the stench of what you’ve worn before.
but i never go back these days, i never fix anything. like unfinished doors and torn off bits of skin. all i try to do is open things with a hammer and thrash about. i never go back.
and she says
and when she says, “c’mon, let me be your pet,” there’s a cat grin like she was perched before a canary.
she’s the dream that turns and grabs your cock and twists it tight until it can’t get any harder.
and you want to grab her, her hips, put her over, under you, turn her around smack her behind, pry open her mouth. you want to brush the hair from her lips and devour her, be devoured by her, again and again.
you want to find at what point does the grin fall away and you see something raw and broken and real. to find something worth fucking.
“As I imagine you”
told from yianna’s perspective things i cannot say to her from her eyes, as i imagine her.
ie,
“the first memory i have of my father was his eyes and his breath. his gaze was steady but his breath was sour, always the slightest uncomfortable hint of bile at the edges. he was a big and often times mean… ”
etc
every blank page
and every blank page is
a mark of failure
a badge of honor
of not having written it down
of having lived every minute instead
every empty page is
where nothing will remain
where something has happened
a life about to be forgotten
a life worth living
every measure of silence
a moment lost to time
not a moment lost to living