23 december

OH, the impregnable stench of the festering dream! ("...does it crust and sugar over, like a syrupy sweet?.... or does it explode?") i want eight lives to live, all quick and clean and hard and vivacious: i am given one, that i stare at like a stranger's soiled baby and do not live it, cannot live it. i have sixteen years of pipe dreams and misattributed quotations that amass to a critical mound of nothing. My pens dry up and my arms grow fat. What does one do?

You grab hungrily, greedily-- disgustingly-- ripe fat fingers finding nothing but nothing and air. You, so ready to fling yourself at the world, at its slick smooth surface, to trapeze endlessly under the white erotic sun of fairies and gods and smooth flesh; flinging and flinging and flinging till bruises bubble bluely to the surface, and blithely never knowing where you are flung.

Lord, you fling so hard, your bones are soft and black, charred pulpy like slender bloody plums. You scrub yourself raw with newsprint and Elle and the Modernists so that your skin shrugs fashionably thinly accross the proud stoop of your worldly-wise shoulders. You ripe green fool, trading your slick taut green-apple skin for the brown-bloody sophistocate burnt-baked-cinnamon sludge. You have so deified yourself, all coalescing and effervescing and even YOU could not erase you if you tried. You, overdressed, siezing the day, strangling it....