James A. Joyce
(Jan 11/06)
This afternoon I prudently grafted a picture of James A, Joyce from John McCourt’s aptly titled coffee-table book, James Joyce, to a $0.99 pretend mahogany frame purchased at the local thrift store. It sits atop a pyre of like-minded books next to a framed picture of Samuel Beckett, Joyce’s onetime annalist, not to be confused with analyst, or Dr. Wilfred Bion, to whom Beckett reposed back-head first to when he was a young aspiring playwright. The evidence that Joyce was unfamiliar with or had not read Freud is tenuous at best, although a prudent reading of Ulysses clearly contradicts this pedagogical bromide. The river runs, so to speak, circuitously and with little regard for proper grammar, spelling, syntax or punctuation. The funnel in the anterior abacus of my head, where information, datum, the odd logarithm and general nonsense gains access to my thinking-machine, seems to be fair to middling-full with dross, applesauce and ill manners. Perhaps a slight repose is in order, if not that, then at least a conk on the head to ease the ascension to unconsciousness. We of the Ego-less Id deserve at least such. Coprophilia, as is evidenced from my own inability to master proper grammar, syntax, spelling and punctuation. Fuck but I’m tired, fucking depleted I’d say.
This afternoon I prudently grafted a picture of James A, Joyce from John McCourt’s aptly titled coffee-table book, James Joyce, to a $0.99 pretend mahogany frame purchased at the local thrift store. It sits atop a pyre of like-minded books next to a framed picture of Samuel Beckett, Joyce’s onetime annalist, not to be confused with analyst, or Dr. Wilfred Bion, to whom Beckett reposed back-head first to when he was a young aspiring playwright. The evidence that Joyce was unfamiliar with or had not read Freud is tenuous at best, although a prudent reading of Ulysses clearly contradicts this pedagogical bromide. The river runs, so to speak, circuitously and with little regard for proper grammar, spelling, syntax or punctuation. The funnel in the anterior abacus of my head, where information, datum, the odd logarithm and general nonsense gains access to my thinking-machine, seems to be fair to middling-full with dross, applesauce and ill manners. Perhaps a slight repose is in order, if not that, then at least a conk on the head to ease the ascension to unconsciousness. We of the Ego-less Id deserve at least such. Coprophilia, as is evidenced from my own inability to master proper grammar, syntax, spelling and punctuation. Fuck but I’m tired, fucking depleted I’d say.
Now that I am awake, I am unconscious. Wakefulness and insentience are, I fear, samesuch.
a woman’s mouth
the sky is like a woman’s mouth, you said
a soft peach without the stone
a woman’s mouth
the sky is like a woman’s mouth, you said
a soft peach without the stone
impassioned fruit, succulent and watery
sugary and sweet, you said
a woman’s mouth, you said
is like the folds in a child’s arms
doughy with butter and lard
kneaded into a flint crusted pie, you said
then swallowed in one bite, a languor
in the want of your belly
No comments:
Post a Comment