(no subject)
and if i write here, i want it to be a stripped raw waltzing impromptu, Eb minor in three four time, something i do not know myself yet as i have not tipped my contemporary synthetic anaesthetic quill to quell such desires as i have this, particular plucked minute within this narcotic and quixotic hour of 8:32 in the morning, languorous with fragrant liquids, fetid odours of foxtrotting bodies emanating from the cadaver of sleep, hanging like a transparent filmy husk. i have written stories about dreams hung like sinewy carcasses, this erstwhile wanton week, read de sade's juliette, purchased rich oil sticks and a thick alabaster canvas.
i have been under red umbrellas at night with he when there was no inkling of a deluge, mars rouged and diabolical. i have sat in a pale field with dead bathtubs and luminous violet horizons, insects like crackling violas, the city lights yellow'd and green, glimmering, saffron, blue orbs. blackish budding bats.
i shot film down the main streets dressed in Victorian costume. earlier:
"i despise hurried mornings, but prefer to take them latent, sedated, a mosque of dark and light masks, disturbing and masticating arias by Catalani, before dawn, damp tails of dusk cluttered with the sounds of owls, subtle skeins of milk threaded through coffee."
i discovered while traveling on a generic bus that i have hundreds of elusive, bejeweled heads, a manifestation of ambiguity.
but now i am heavily assumed by a transmutation into an elaborate structure, an exquisitely disgusting bougainvillea laterita, red, salmon, but cleft my heads in twain and i shall rear them, a flotilla of ravening maidenheads, flowerheads, pinkish papery bustles.
'this poignant itching, closely resembling passion, may become quite as delectable and consequently, like it, metamorphose into a primary need.' DE SADE
i have also decided that i will choose to do what most enamours my luscious nervous system, that i will not submitted to this terminal monotony offered to me on gilded platters daily. i have always been anxious as to how i would evade such a tedious erection of life, but it is deceptively simple. i simply will not subject myself to any reality or mundanity that is not in some facet delightful or advantageous. i mean of course, that i will divine fiendish domesticities if they are necessary occurrences, but i will live uncleanly if i feel so inclined, i will stutter and go mad if i must, like warm ochre butter split sensuously on fine silk without a plate, drink red wine quickly and dress in a curtain, if this means i will not be subject to these banal practices i am encouraged vociferously to venture into, these horrifically boring institutions i am roused to accept without resistance just "to be safe". it does not distress me because i simply refuse. i will just sit like a lotus in a brocade armchair and concoct monstrous delicate hymns from hormonal compounds. i will accomplish to tempting rather than the tepid. other wise, perhaps it goes without saying, i will die, dry up, my grace flaking from my flanks.
JE T'AIME
JE T'AIME
JE T'AIME
time to make spiced wine, in the morning entailing the entrails of "9:00". what hours i digest into what quivering tawny scrawl i digress.
i feel like throwing my cup casually out of the window merely because i have culminated the contents, and am swathed in placid ashen anaemic sheathes.
PLEASE DO SOMETHING YOU WOULDN'T ORDINARILY. ANYTHING REALLY, USE FOOD DYE TO COLOUR YOUR HAIR. TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT YOURSELF AND WHAT YOU WANT, WHETHER IT BE TO EAT ANTS, WEAR A KETTLE FOR A HAT OR BE A PROCTOLOGIST.
this extempore flourishing in exile felt good, felt like i wasn't writing something stale, something regurgitated from the realm of my pansy-colour-bound paper journal.
that said, i am going to go and eat soft and fleshy custard apples and drink rosepetal cordial on my tiled gunmetal roof,
so stay well and rosy, dears. if you are not well, i hope you feel better, in every atom, every cell, that roseate autonomous cluster. a blossoming beast of viscera.
ah, i cannot cease! it just keeps growing in reams in my little festering brain. words, a continuum of ripened resurrection, little black marks like sparrows not defunct but blushing, shrouding the bourgeois in their shit.
my mother is now surgically attached to the coil of communication that salts our daily feast known as conversation, gives it some corporeal, appetising form. rather than the ethereal real thing that remains an intangible grasping of genius before losing it to the time, the situation, the person you never see again.
alright, so i have wallowed in a propensity for pleonasm for too long.
i apologise, and shall slink out of this cage like a silhouette, the surreptitious sound of the oboe, long black shadows.
x