SKIN BOOK #8
You say I want to wear you like the skin stretched on my cheekbones. I say no you don’t, you want to hang me
In your head
And drape me in mourning-cloth like some fucking icon or a dead pet or any other pair of tits you hide to excite-guilt-dare-fear-make your slave. You say those are goldfish delusions swimming
In your head
So I say why don’t you and you say I can’t touch and I say you won’t touch and you say I can’t and down the ether, quantum, firbreoptic forearm fire lines I hear the endless loop I can’t and type you won’t and hit return and hit and hit to fight fist fuck the echo
In your head.
You caps GET OUT and I caps back I’M NOT IN, and you say I want to wrap my tongue on the rancid memories
In your head
To lick the mucus pain, the sicked-on synapse rage, to grasp, claw, seize, suck the stenching gouting gash until you have no past at all, and I say I have no past. My past is just the white trash torture porn poster girl
In your head.
Wrenching & ROAR! More! More!
Pen
Thanks – full version will be available next week
Can’t wait for the full version. Definitely stumbled. You’ve got rhythm, man.
Anne LG
Thanks, Anne🙂
“hide to excite”
stretch…hang me… In your head…drape
This is what I’m talking about maaan! Cataract of words feeding off other words, subverting the visual association of hang (after stretch and before drape). Words being quarried for multiple meanings and the sparks that fly off from your sculpting chisel beneath the lexigraphical marble.
I’m loving it
marc
🙂 the mourning-cloth bit got my head so busy it almost exploded so I wasn’t dure about it – aside from the images of widows in black lace, the predominant image I had was statues in a Catholic Church during Lent (don’t even GO there with the TG imagery and statues of the BVM) but that made me think of a paper I’d heard by a curator who’d put together an exhibition of Balkna art in glass boxes hidden under black drape-cloth that people had misunderstood as symbolising death, when actually she’d wanted to show them fragmented from the rest of reality (she was deliberately subverting what she held to be a westernised stereotype of the mourning-cloth). And there’e the photographer beneath his black cloth, and all those victorian glass exhibits pinned and mounted…
Man, I been skinned.
wonderful
Can’t wait for the chapbook!
🙂
I’ve been reading these and re-reading and waiting to post something that resembles something coherent – but your language, this story, is too much for that. This one might be my favorite, but that’s a bit brutal, it all works – the dark humor of it, the tactile tearing of it, I want to wear it around town, all of it. It’s the best kind of suffering, waiting for the next chapter.
I’m just in awe. Brilliant.
Oh dear, D j – I have a terrible feeling everyone will be let down by the ending!
I cruised thru parts 4,5,6,7 and here without need of a GPS and with nary a bump in the road. Enjoyed the ride. Some of ur word choices & couplings are brilliant.
Thank you for reading, John