Wednesday, October 7, 2009

bits of poetry and prose

not likely to interest, but i like to share.

bangles dance
2007/06/01 10:11

at the center of my lust is the girl, who wears her pussy on her sleeve. she has weed crumbs in the hem of her skirt and cat hair on her shoulder. she smells perfumed and woody, with undertones of a field ploughed on a hot day, when the clouds finally break and drain.

bangles dance
on both bird bone wrists
and white round breasts
rise out of black lace.

sky blue eyes rimmed in kohl. body punched to hold more rings and sparkle. her pussy wears a halo of flames. she slices my soul into long slivers and drops them onto the tongues of her hungry harem. her beauty is a wonderous weapon, and sometimes she turns it on me and I can feel for certain the icy rush that hails from her dark heart. the men think they love her.

 What is your product? I manufacture want.
2007/02/17 01:43 Myspace and most of my internet exploits have been a grand experiment in branding myself. I have created an e-dentity which has the best and worst elements of that which I would consider to be my essence. Whatever my market will respond to. Not positively respond to, but respond to. Emote for me. Want me. What I've realized concurrent with this revelation is the my identity operates in the same way.
The currency: attention. (Justification for my existence or for the expenditure of resources I represent). The platform: predetermined, premeditated and not of my personal design, choice or preference.

Expression of self in these times is masturbating (furiously) while the house burns down.

I've been told by both mainstream and underground paradigms that if I package the "me" brand in this way... or that way... I will be rewarded or satisfied or satiated. Online and off.

But I'm realizing it by looking at my virtual identity. How many hits can my page get? How many times in my life will I get hit on? How many visits per day validate me, how many punches in my dance card? How many kudos or dollars or esteems or diggs or guarantees against mortality can I collect today?

This seems an extension of the religion I was (honestly) raised under. Capitalist to the soul. If there is something of intrinsic value within me, where do I find a buyer? How do I turn that worth into something measurable so I can sell it? If I do not sell it how do I know I had wealth? The market will tell me why I am.
I am not a person. I am the result of research into who you might (or should) want a person to be. Who you would believe is a person, who you would associate with as a person.

Corporations aren't the only carefully constructed "persons" with special privilege. If I can perform beauty as a female without the overhead exceeding the market price, I will not die of anorexia. If I can perform productivity as an employed member of society, I will not lose "self" to madness or "well-being" to homelessness or "health" to addiction.

It is a choice in the face of market conditions. And at the base of this paradigm: the specter of the fundamental flaw in rejecting corporate identity (or my role as a person.) Neither of us should lay claim to a soul. The individual is not "humane". The species may be.

aug 1 2008

in the rarefied air early early morning i smelled him dreaming of an egg in a birdcage. monstrous. obscene.

the night previous to this he had hit me in the abdomen before retiring, and I dreamt of a man with a cricket bat between his legs.

i burned his breakfast black.

but tonight sleep was impossible. the black steel fan rattled in its cage, and his face was churning in my stomach, sending white yellow splurts of acid up my throat. unpleasant, to say the least.

and yet i claimed (and still claim today, when pressed) to have loved him and only him. because sometimes we call a thing love when its real name is unspeakable. because we have nothing else to call it by.

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