fracture mechanics

I get inside her mouth with rats and worms… rot her from the inside out and the outside in… we decide to piss on each other… ah, isn’t love a beautiful thing…

Twilight ambles through and bares a window across its semi-naked body. Pierre’s faceless monotone mood escapes through the gaps in the bathroom door and Mary feels the sickening thump of yesterday’s absinth beating her head to a pulp.
-Monsieur, please wake up. Monsieur, the doors are being locked and you must leave. You cannot stay here anymore. The doors are being locked.
Stretched out on his back on the floor Pierre summons a god-awful moan from the pit of his stomach and prises his right eye wide open with his thumb and forefinger, cutting through the waiter with a blank pinhole stare.
-We are forever on the floor my lords ladies and gentleman’s toilet. Vomit flows into piss through the valleys and the joins, the valleys and the joins. Always making notes to myself I am, but never reading the damn things back. Which is why I am always on the floor, my table of a waiter of a lover-man, mine.

Out of the air she made a mouth…
a month of rain followed.
Out of her eye came the Sun,
a compact disc,
a facular on her pupil…
changed the meaning of the word ‘illumination’…
a month of cubism followed.
Out of her absinth womb came sex,
a sniveling poltroon:
-O don’t die, don’t die! Our apple diabolist,
our sweet idea and psychopath…
a month of mothers followed.
Out of her stomach came hunger
and with the mouth she made
we ate it up.

The long chemical light flickers and traces thin, very thin, outlines of bodies, profiles of movements: light traits left in the dark… and junkies look cool no matter what they say. All style and no substance… slim and tight: tight skin hugging the bones and tight clothes hugging the skin hugging the bones.

Smack heads and crack heads and drunks all a-quivering an’ a-twitching an’ a-slippin’ an’ a-slidin’. There is no depth here, none of us even pretend that there is – we all stick out like splinters. Nothing goes in, not even the needle. It all pushes out. Each twitch, every movement punches out but never gets out – everything happens over the surface.

Bodies are like bones pushed out of taut rubber – voices, words, language, just the same, just shapes pushing into the surface – love, hate, indifference, thought, not-thought, real, not-real, all come to pass on this slippery surface.

“But what of the orgasms?” they will ask. “And what of the bone chiseling pain?”

“Skin deep, skin deep, tra-la-la!” If there are things lurking beneath the surface, what are they to us, anyhow? The pain is not under the skin but over it; vibrating across it! In this light, pain is only a remote reflex of wills.

The long chemical light flickers and no one is real under these conditions… not real-life real at any rate. We are dream-real; partially all there and totally fragmented.

I drift into the open air. The sea is as green as the morning blue. I smell that salty air and I am a child again … I can hear the pebbles rattling under the waves crashing around a small boat rocking – wood gently knocking wood…

With plastic meaning, or meaning more than meaning,
she knits malignant pronouns around a pen,
around some ink, around a heart, around a name.
She eyes the paper that frames her ‘I’s
and ties her ogles up in objects dead as doornails.
She locks those bare boned and impenetrable ghosts
inside the moment that cuts the wombed minuet from the hour
and bites at the jaw of time’s immortal carcass.

The dust on her heels bleeds and dies there.
Those unforgiving children of space
eat into the ribcage of shape,
and shape for each insect of her dying
a naked and fragmented shell.
Nothingness needles its maggot
through the shadows of her moving,
exposing the object-eye-on-fire in the worm of her vision.

Her seasick body, beyond blood, flesh and bone,
is stopped in its tracks by tuppenny love in the vein
with all its broken morning
in smithereens across the equator of her heart.
The genesis at her toe makes her more the fool,
goes like the clappers between time and no time at all;
cannot be sculpted from an inkwell nor a cage,
cannot be held on to, nor traced along a page.