(April 27/06)
I am neither this or that, that or this. I am what lies in between, the that this, the silence within the this that. I am a bedsore, the septic wound that won’t scab over, a syphilitic ulcer that will never heal. I am the carotid artery that begs for more oxygen, but is given none. I am the shit bag appended to the bow of your hipbone, a conduit for the waste drained from a prolapsed bowel, the cesspool that collects the unwanted sewage. I dispense of nothing and have nothing to dispense; I am indispensable. I am the Rector’s surplice cinched round his churchman’s collar, the hair shirt worn beneath worsted Oxford broadcloth. I am the swine in Swinburne, the fuck in Foucault, the flaw in flawless, and the ass in assonance. I am all of these yet none of these; I am the that this, that which lies in between this or that, that or this.
Holderlin’s der Bildungstrieb
pure imminence
bled from the menace
of world
I am neither this or that, that or this. I am what lies in between, the that this, the silence within the this that. I am a bedsore, the septic wound that won’t scab over, a syphilitic ulcer that will never heal. I am the carotid artery that begs for more oxygen, but is given none. I am the shit bag appended to the bow of your hipbone, a conduit for the waste drained from a prolapsed bowel, the cesspool that collects the unwanted sewage. I dispense of nothing and have nothing to dispense; I am indispensable. I am the Rector’s surplice cinched round his churchman’s collar, the hair shirt worn beneath worsted Oxford broadcloth. I am the swine in Swinburne, the fuck in Foucault, the flaw in flawless, and the ass in assonance. I am all of these yet none of these; I am the that this, that which lies in between this or that, that or this.
Holderlin’s der Bildungstrieb
pure imminence
bled from the menace
of world
Gin jug cruet glasses for the far near sighted. Walser’s pencil end scribbling a brusque note to doctor Angola’s asking for a rasher of egg and dry melba, a poach of marmalade (blood orange) on the side. And me, straightjacketed and echoic, curtly demanding a pat of butter to smutch like ram’s gore on the mope of my addle head. The joy in madness is the madness in joy. Scrabbling endnotes to prefaces and appendixes never to be written, wangling the milt from the codpiece of hell. Coaxing the ovule from the nuclease, the nisus from the broadcloth, the ram’s gore from the rasher of toast. A wise man, a princely sage, once told me, fuck the truth, its all a bunch of flies. When I asked, don’t you mean lies? He said, with an abruptness broaching on madness, flies, its all a bunch of fucking flies. I left it, and him, at that, and threw myself into oncoming traffic. All a bunch of flies, I mutter to myself. The madness in joy is the joy in madness, the this that, the swineherd in Swinburne, the fuck you in Foucault, the flawlessness in flawless, the endnotes to a text never to be written.
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