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Showing posts with label bodies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bodies. Show all posts

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Picking Up Items and Putting Them Back. Lena, Mark, an Unnamable Lover, and an Unknown Listener.




>>>>>2005.


Lena asks her roommate if he can stay the night somewhere else.

"I have plans here tonight," she says.

Lena's roommate is sad but obedient. He secretly records the sounds that drift from Lena's bedroom walls and sells them to a stranger on the internet. The stranger pays two-hundred dollars for each hour of audio. Sometimes the roommate gets excited by the audio but he is a man of god goddammit and he must save himself for a moral whore. Ten percent of each two-hundred dollar hour goes to the poor, he tells himself goddammit. 

Tonight is a six-hundred dollar night. Tonight will surely be symphonic. Lena has already tossed the lingerie she plans to wear over the armchair in the hallway. It is close to the color of her skin, which makes it very light and almost transparent. The roommate does not mind Lena's obvious promiscuity but wishes she would wear red sometimes. She would look goddamn better in red, he thought. 

The roommate enters Lena's room while Lena is  showering. He walks to her nightstand and places something underneath it. It is a tiny device that can record three hours of audio before having to be recharged in a wall outlet. The roommate sets the device to begin recording at 10 PM. It is 8:40 now.

The roommate is distracted by a piece of jewelry Lena has left on her nightstand, a single bone-shaped earring. It doesn't look like anything she would wear. The roommate picks up the earring and finds it quite heavy. 

"It's not for your ear."

Lena's roommate turns around. Lena has been watching him but there is no way to know for how long unless he asks her.

"How long have you been watching?"

"Nine seconds," she says. "Are you looking for something?"

Lena walks over to her roommate and he notices that she has managed to get into the skin-colored lingerie between the bathroom and her bedroom. She smells like her own cum because she always masturbates in the shower, but the roommate thinks Lena smells like shampoo.

"Just checking if you have any dishes in here before I run the washer. I saw the earring on your table."

Lena smiles. "It's for your tongue."

The roommate blushes in revulsion. He sets the ring back on Lena's nightstand. "I thought it looked weird," he says. 

"That's because - " Lena takes the ring off the nightstand "- you are used to seeing pairs." She opens her mouth and pushes the ring through an invisible hole in the center of her tongue. "Now get out of here Mark. I am barely dressed."

Mark leaves the room and doesn't run the dishwasher and leaves the house and doesn't lock the front door. He will stay at his girlfriend's tonight, even though he still hasn't been able to explain to her why he lives with such a crude woman. But his girlfriend loves the one-hundred-and-eighty dollar shoes he buys her so she asks few questions except "how ever did you afford these?" She will then give him a bad handjob. While she does it, Mark closes his eyes and pictures his girlfriend in red lingerie. Unfortunately she only wears white underwear. It reminds Mark too much of Lena.

Lena is polished when her lover arrives. It is 9:31.

Her lover motions to cup her breast after they have had a glass of wine. He squeezes it and likes how it is the perfect size for his hand.

"You're filthy," she tells him, but thrusts her chest forward and deeper into his grip. Her lover gets on his knees and lifts up her slip to kiss her stomach. The position puts him eye-level with Lena's desk a few feet away. It distracts him.

Her lover picks up several pieces of red-stained paper from the desk. "Your writing is covered in blood."

"It's only wine. I spilled it accidentally."

The lover holds the paper close to his face. The blue inky words bleed into the stained paper. A string of them he can make out: "the satisfied cunt will suffer my trials."

"You're going to kill one of your characters," he says. "A girl."

Lena takes the paper from her lover and replaces it on her desk. "No. She just needed to get dirty. But she'll be alright. You, on the other hand, have the opposite problem. You are filthy."

Lena walks to her bathroom and turns on the shower. "Come here and take off all of your clothes," she instructs. "I am going to watch you clean yourself." 

The shower is clear glass with sliding doors. Lena's lover slides one of them aside and steps in. He begins washing his hair and the shape his arms make when they are above his head does something strange to Lena. She sits on the sink that faces the shower. She draws one leg up to rest her foot on the sink and lets the other dangle. 

Lena begins to touch herself and when her lover notices what she is doing he also reaches for himself. For several minutes they refuse to meet the other's eyes, suspending the illusion for as long as possible that neither knows the other is watching. 

"Get over here," he says finally.

Lena obeys, not bothering to remove her slip. When wet it clings to her body like another skin, so when her lover puts his hand underneath it he feels like he is penetrating her already.

He attempts to pin her back against the narrow wall of the shower. He wants to fuck her standing. but the wall is wet and she slides down a little when her feet lift from the ground. As he pushes harder she slides further down. With her left hand Lena grabs the top of the sliding glass door and distributes her body unequally. She positions her right foot on the soap ledge and her symmetry is recovered. Now her lover is able to fuck her harder.

He does and when she is about to come, Lena's foot becomes dislodged from the soap ledge. A tremendous pressure is suddenly applied to the glass door Lena clings to. Her lover thrusts forward to deliver the concluding orgiastic movement. Lena screams, the glass door shatters, and the two lovers fall out of the shower onto the bathroom floor, still connected to each other and now also connected to several hundred shards of glass that beat them to the ground. 

Lena and her lover quickly survey their new surroundings. Then their eyes meet, both pairs still raw with desire from orgasm. The lover's body, covered in blood and glass, starts to shake with laughter. Lena, equally bloody, equally glass-covered, is equally amused. Lena and her lover cling to one another, closer than any two humans have ever been before, two laughing humans fucking on a pile of broken glass while their blood clots and skin breaks.

"I think about you all the time Lena," he says. 

Lena stands up and brushes bits of glass away from her body. Her slip is torn but nothing is punctured. 

"We're lucky to be alive," she says. Lena pulls off her slips and leaves it in the sink. A combination of water and blood coats her skin. Her lover has never seen anything so arousing. 

"Let's go to bed," he suggests. 

Lena nods and helps her lover off the ground. The pair enter Lena's bedroom and Lena begins to pull tiny pieces of glass out of her lover's skin. They take turns digging out little pieces from flesh and placing them in a coffee mug. With every freed shard comes a gasp of relief. When they are emptied of glass, Lena's lover puts two fingers inside her and she moans at the unexpected sensation of being filled. 

Lena's lover is happy and surprised with how vocal Lena is tonight. She tells him she masturbates to him all the time and orders him to come on different parts of her body. She is louder than usual and he responds proportionately. When he becomes too exhausted to continue, Lena waits for her lover to fall asleep and then cleans his wounds with alcohol. She reaches under her nightstand and takes out the audio-recording device. 

"I miss you," she says into it. 

Lena shuts the device off and leaves it under the nightstand for her roommate to retrieve in the morning. It is 12:57 AM.


>>>>>


Sunday, April 17, 2011

desire lines are retraceable.




this part is inspired by a few things. this post, that is. one is red wine, which I am drinking now; this will become quite obvious. others: real conversations with real people. everyone who shares their honest thoughts with me is inspiration. 




1999. 



"Alethea and Her Cousin"



On a warm spring day eight years ago…almost…the sixteen-year-old virgin Alethea enters the bedroom of her cousin.

Alethea is a Catholic and a devout one at that. She attends mass twice weekly and remains vulnerable to the anachronistic orthodoxies of the institution.

"The church updates itself every four-hundred years or so to only be only a hundred years or so behind the present," Alethea's cousin tells her.

Alethea is also vulnerable to her cousin. He is a year older than her and obviously not Catholic.  Alethea is often startled at the accidental profundity of his thoughts and injures herself at night in maniacal attempts to persuade her hands away from her clitoris. Their bedrooms face each other from across the street. Currently his is dark. Currently Alethea's hands are burnt-up with the remedying effects of boiling water.

"What is this?" Alethea asks herself, holding her raw and shaking hands up to the mirror. 

Of all his parts, Alethea likes her cousin's eyes the most. They are the same blue as the Virgin's shroud. Alethea's eyes are brown like shit so she refuses to meet his gaze, fearful a prolonged connection will soil her immaculate soul. 

"Whose soul?" he cousin asks. "Why do you never look me in the eye, Alethea?"

"I don't know."

"It's me. You know me. It won't hurt you to look at me."

Alethea repeats Matthew 5:28 to herself as she lifts her gaze to meet his. The verse goes something like, "you might as well give up trying, because even just thinking about something bad is enough to damn you." The verse's resonance corresponds inversely to the ever-intensifying blueness of her cousin's eyes. The longer Alethea stares the bluer they get. 

"Oh!" Alethea says laughing. "This is easy!"

Her cousin sighs deeply and shakes his head. He puts his hand behind her head to feel her scalp. He pulls a few of her hairs. Out. "Come back to my house Alethea," he says.

She takes his hand, worn unevenly from the constant plucking of guitar strings, she takes it and finds it fits very evenly into hers, hers still burned from the night before. 

Alethea discovers that sex is like the cigarettes she smokes, the poetry she reads. She never knew she needed it until she had it, and now she cannot exist long without it.

Her cousin requests she takes off her shirt but she removes her panties. He puts his hand on top of her skin and she puts it under. He offers her a kiss; she multiples them, over and over, everywhere. She becomes positively helpless when he compliments her breasts and she hears the Holy Mother screaming in agonizing bliss when he discovers her clitoris. 

"I've never done this before," they say to each other, not knowing exactly what they mean.

* * *

Lena pauses in drafting her story, suddenly unhappy with how happy these teenagers are in this small and, in the whole grand narrative of things, relatively meaningless encounter. She arises from her desk and pours herself a glass of red wine. 

Lena is alone in her house, spare a cat, spare the aquarium of fish it taunts every dawn and dusk. 

"I am so devastatingly lonely," Lena says to herself. She calls her friend Jane only to repeat the sentence. "I'm so devastatingly lonely..." Lena catches a fish from the aquarium and tosses it to her eager tabby. The cat pins the fish between the rug and its paw, waiting for its struggle to subside. Before the fish dies, Lena shoos the cat away and returns the fish the aquarium. It is still alive.

"Come over," Lena says to Jane, who has been telling Lena all about something forgettable for the past several minutes.

"Lena, no."

"It will be quick. You can just lay there. You won't even have to move."

"No, Lena."

"Why not?"

"...I'm not like that."

Lena grips the telephone very tightly, and holds it very thoughtfully, before flinging it across the room. "Neither am I you bitch," she screams. The telephone hits a print of Madame Butterfly Lena has framed and shatters its protective glass. Lena rushes to pour another glass of wine. She pours the next glass of wine on her manuscript.

"Are you happier now, Alethea, you hedonistic bitch."

And Lena, frenzied with envy over a piece of her imagination, grabs the now-red notebook and crams it into her purse. She leaves her house and begins walking towards a tower. A bell tower.

"I'll exorcize you Alethea. You're going to change. You can't have all the fun now. I won't have to live vicariously through you, for your life will become dull and mine so very interesting. I'll have Jane. I'll have my cousin. I'll have my father, real Electra-style. And when I'm not with someone forbidden I'll throw myself on the various inanimate phallic objects that reside in my house. I'll have a fucking banana. Then have a drunken baby with the better end of a wine bottle. You'll be nothing, Alethea, just a child crossing the threshold of a single taboo, a single taboo to my dozens upon dozens."

"You'll be nothing," Lena lies to herself, applying lipstick, readjusting her stockings, putting on a face to face herself less fearfully. 

The gates to the church are locked, however, and Lena is forced to delay her exorcism for twelve horrible fucking hours.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

this period was different than the rest.

.

.
I am a child bearing hips and I have them too.
Nothing grew, so everything came out, primordial
goo of my D, the ends of my N, the stray A that
one day might live in another body or two.
.
.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Me, Disappearing

I have lost a part of myself in the last year and a half.

Not feeling, not love, those are always fluctuating, their loss and gain as steady as water lapping the shores of the Cumberland. The same is stress and equally to soothe, equaling the rhythms of desired rest and her will to move. No, no the loss is literal for once.  

To be precise I have lost ten percent of myself.

The internet affords a pictorial trajectory of a body's evolution. The bodies are fellows of the past, some lucky in the present, but past or present most are gaining. Years ago a bone showed, flesh covers it today, flesh and that other word more dimpled and undesired, still filling the first letter with F.

Two-hundred and ten ounces! I say I am trying to dress like a little boy. I start eating flesh and butter; it gets worse. I say I don't know how it happened but I do. I do because I want more gone. More gone than her, as if that would make a difference to anyone other than a slowly disappearing me.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Lena meets Alice.

No one knew that Lena was violent.

Those naturally inclined to sex are also naturally inclined to violence; I am not sure why the dichotomy exists but it does.

Now Lena had spent her whole life naturally drawn to sex and consequentially gained much attention for her behavior. However, Lena had willfully sacrificed nearly all of this behavior because of this single man from the deep deep south. Her ample emotional energy, therefore, was redirected from the sexual part of her mind to the violent one. In fact these were the only two sides of Lena's mind.

Lena's natural violent tendencies had always been pacified by a consistent stream of lovers. Now her hands held kitchen knives a little tighter and her shoes were all spiked with pointed heels.

At first the change startled her.

She went swimming one night with a group of Canadians she had met at a birthday party. Lena felt there was something different about her interactions with these men but she wasn't sure what had changed.

"We have a surprise for you," one of them said. "Alice."

"Who is Alice" she asked.

"You are going to love her."

"You will get along great."

Lena hated meeting other women. But the night was hot and she had been promised booze and cool water.

When the group arrived at the pool, they told Lena to undress and wait for them by the water while they fetched Alice. Lena had no bathing suit so she wore only a bra and panties. She removed the outer layers of her clothes and wrapped a towel around herself. She waited for the Canadians to return. She closed her eyes and reclined on a beach chair.

"Lena" they said after a few minutes. "We present to you Alice."

Lena opened her eyes. The Canadians were in the pool and a wet sensation overcame Lena's toes.

Lena stood up and the towel around her body slid to the ground. She bent down and picked up the tiny puppy nibbling at her feet.

"Hello Alice" she said.

Lena walked the length of the pool with the puppy in her arms. She felt the eyes of every Canadian following the two bodies.

Lena did not feel sexy.

Lena felt terrifying.

It was at that moment, almost naked by the pool with a puppy in her arms, that Lena realized the men had given her the thing in order to look at her without being frightened. She had been tempered with soft black fuzz and pitiful whimpers. She dropped the puppy on the ground and stared back at the men.

When Lena arrived home that night she scrawled something in ink above her bed.

Lena smiled. The grip on her pen loosened.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

two northamerican panoramas.



















outside or inside: one feels him

wave. waves.


she or he. she or one. one or one. one or none.
.

Monday, March 22, 2010

The Second Most Important Thing.

Smoking Notices

posted on mouth's roof, unscorched,
rather, submissive, to lukewarm noodles.

I like room temperature food.
As a smoker I, well I, before I
made nicotine dessert (and pre-breakfast,
coffee, the drive to school [and back],
too), second only to flavor I
wanted clear indications of hot and
cool. Lavasoup and icy fruit. Texture -
tongue welcomes anything, after
becoming acquainted with sperm - no,
just taste and temp for calories one
needn't suck for -

I de-emphasized degrees after afew
years of - rebellion - smokers notice
flavor less, there are reasons one
cannot become a registered connoisseur. In
order to re-tart strawberries and
de-bland butter I
ran out of room on the kitchen counters
and stored my shampoo in the freezer.

I watched food sit when it should be chilled
or heated waited a few extra minutes to
consume a slice of pizza. I can't have a
competition with flavor and you, temperature
are seeded high. By pushing food to rot it
oxidizes or screams to be used gives up on
preserving and succumbs to the tongue to
the mouth that chews it; the only
exception I make is for sperm.

Friday, January 8, 2010

Should Have Used a Stricture

structures are strictures.

One particular stricture
fixes the allure of lunar
circuit internally, in an
ending sky. The structure
of the sky is red, its
stricture is cell. The
structure of the cell is
single, its stricture is
ahead. Another cell single
in the red sky ahead. To
double the structure cancels
the stricture. To cancel
the stricture requires another
hand, a frigid nozzle today but
a baby tomorrow. A whirring
electric buzz(saw) today and
bundled joy tomorrow. Either
violates the structure and
lifts the stricture. Either
the moon will grow full
again or I won't either.




Sunday, September 20, 2009

Figure Study 3

quickcycles

leaks.


comes 2o days a.


part of my parts leaking out.


red symphonies of woman.


hood should ever so present.


effervescent remind.


er of insides not working&.


churning persuading the.


many ovulation insists.


I service with metal or.


plastic apparatus maybe.


then the blood will.


decide to stay in.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Holy Ghosts

I touched an a priori love with the
same invisible hand that directs lust,
breaks trust then waves them off.

Absence is:
-subtraction of sex.
-abstraction of the rest.
-like formulaic espresso pulls.
-breathing steel and straws, they blow.
-rootless trees and our gutless poetic slush.
-cigarette-splashes, the smell of dead matches.

A guardian specter.

Lectured in your technique, my body
resigns from pursuit and memories
imperceptible but residual reemerge as
impossible.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Works and Days.

Next post is next poetry lesson.

Until then.







Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Ink and MS Paint

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Prose on Logic/A Love Letter

Academic trending of formal logic classes offered in 2008 reference William of Ockham in theoretical execution:

“the simplest solution
is the best solution”

Formal logic parallels geometry in structure and chemistry in method; the former supplies a blueprint of verification while the latter insists success by memorization. Thus, a complete mastery of formal logic is achieved not only by practicing certain rules, but through an elegant navigation and appreciation of their workable environment.

Arguments verified “reductio ad absurdum” (reduction to the absurd) challenge the aforementioned tenets by reducing formal logic to a game of elimination. In lieu of proof by axiom manipulation, reductio ad absurdum proofs seek not to justify a particular solution but to dismantle and negate every other possible solution. An assumption is made, and the logician presents absolutely no evidence of this assumption’s logical coherency except that all alternative solutions are ridiculous.

Proof by reductio ad absurdum is relatively simple to learn. In contrast to classic logical methodology, an adherent to this devastatingly existential strategy needs not even understand why or how their proof works.

The pleasantries of such a streamlined approach sour rapidly. At their ripest, Kelley receives an “A” in logic class, albeit with a residual sentiment of anger; somehow, her philosophical sharpness has been dulled by overreliance on efficiency and underestimation of a 21 year-old woman’s intellectual gauge.

Yet the most disastrous outcome of engaging formal logic reductio ad absurdum begins when pen-and-paper critical thinking forges a transposition into worlds outside textbook exercise. A variety of factors may or may not contribute mechanically or willfully to its mental embroidery – a notoriously pragmatic heritage, an utter absence of celestial declaration, a self-destructive neurosis, my lovers and the death of my loves.

I am in the process of eliminating each philosophical system, every theory of existence, all ethical frameworks and, most tragically, the concept of beauty in its entirety. The longer I live the more negated life becomes. Inconsistencies, fallacies, mistakes and regrets, they atonally nuance my assertion

“x is true”

and they do this in such a manner as to invade and permeate every aspect of thought – people and positions, to me the difference is inconsequential if it exists at all.

I don’t need to answer why this destructive proclivity guides my life or how I even initiated the aggressive quest for complete and total emptiness. My nihilism necessitates no further validation beyond capability.




Anomalies in systems, their presence, it warrants continuing existence.





(my sole relief is poetry.

my sole reliever is the poet.

He’d be
the boy who listens to my fingers speak.)

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

“How Much Can One Fuck-Up Do For Another Fuck-Up?”

for A.V.

A solution to absolutes. A cherished
equation: one and one, two together.
retracing lines of standard-route
but how about –
two apart, three together.
Two’s a start, but three’s much better.

Or four, for means of further
precision? One me for one;
one me for two. Together we constitute
((((The Quasi-Group))))

Respective to x where x equals time
our figures increase from four to five.
Six for the split, seven with y,
the drunken jump from eight to nine.

Ten for each digit I wrap around his…
– wait.
Redundant to elate. I’m counting
so high; it started at one.

. . . . . . . . . .

the splits were rough, the sex was wrought.

and alone I am.
but alone I’m not.

Friday, May 15, 2009

Poem for Jon on the Occsasion of His Birth

click 2 engorge yr screen

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Aesthetic Guidance Provided by "an item at once plural, yet referening a single item, to be worn around the sexed part of the body"

the dearest canvas pulled taut beneath the
weight and the gravity of my openness surges,
streaming strokes of rare color over peach
armor. Trembling,

enclosed in delicate ebony twist,
we erect the creation, installation vertical – no –
a declining angle – to enhance certain
touches vapid at first glimpse.

a signature, unrestricted to a crook and script
pierces the canvas with the aromatic ink (sweat and sex)
We step back to admire
the masterpiece.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Figure Studies 1 and 2