Tuesday, April 04, 2006

dEATH and tHUMBPRINTS


Jacosta’s Thumbprint

I don’t work; I launder thoughts, a millinery of sorts, grist, stone, and words without tropes and syntax: grammarcide, sound and tonal sodomy, text graft and proper. I stain and sully, besmirch and allocate, revealing the soft fish-white belly underneath. I eat my words, tropes and intentions with Chomsky-like aplomb. I seldom eat connectors or hymens, though have been persuaded, against my better judgment, to grind and masticate whole tracts of linguistic heresy without batting an eye, a strophic eye. Jacosta’s thumbprint, nail curate, beveled like fencing lead, poleax(ed) my one good eye, the oedipal eye, with one fell swoop of her cuckolder’s hand, swung from a height well above C-level. Fucking PLQT, nothing better to do then smote out my eye, a B-level eyesore, nary a cunt’s worry about the sclera or retinal hemorrhaging, fucking no never, sad fucking state of affairs indeed.

1 comment:

Clifford Duffy said...

here you choose words, words that disclose your own desire machine working throught its metaphoric structure, finding a path to your language. and so it goes as the lines, and parts fall , away, revealing the self of becomings.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
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