Curious in the cartoon litany of lying underneath the song is Sylvester the main antagonist out of touch with the show girls who nourish ducklings with a fractal hush that something connects and is like done, the texture of communication bristles against the cat’s tuxedo and beautifully undiminished and slow I go into the lair of the wholesome embodiment, holding up glove puppets of my favourite characters — Melancholy, Sanguine, Cholic and Phlegm — asking will you be west on the day of this shimmering announcement, new protections and crystals, slamming on the bed of our lungs it was gorgeous; I was sick for a month in the cold, moist aporia of not getting it done, my fingers in the cleft of the being held sideways and what is called dyscrasia was thought to be the underpinning of all disease including the disorderly eating with which I bring to you my body, its folds and anthropomorphic sinews, the double blush of my hipbones — and even if Sylvester comes bounding along with impossible feline precision, smacking his chops, and even if temperament is a psychologically damaging aspiration, I aspire to a joy that would swallow, susceptible, the violation — and if that be spirit, Sophia, spiritedness, the cellar door opens on its own to reveal a vital wine whose bold adoration unmerited is only a thrifted, fruity red that is lightly tattooed on your ankle and if you dance with your dear antagonist there’s no stopping, my dear one, stopped, I do not try to bend down the pain tree my spine’s impression remembers the dance of the dream in which I was willowy, carefree without keys and spiralling through the gardens of the queerest princes their sensuous lips are peonies the cognitive vacillation of anyone’s truth claim a clause unlocks and is perilous, like a thirst
Neoliberal hubris and Dionysius on the news escapes immunity, the wilder instinct of the puppet in me and the me in the glove is like holding a hand but who’s anyway, we are going into the structure of witnessing where to hand a soft hypocrisy to the beach is only placating the burning palms, or how it feels to hold you; every little habit or thing in continuum to compulsively repeat the lossy compression of origins every time simple, night time, the song of the puppetshow of the vegetables and a drone in humour — looping whose function — in play’s decentred exigency we are unthinking the shadowplay of having said CHILD YOU ARE IN HOT WATER to a crumbling earth in our green plaster-cast sandpit at the art school tending towards minerals and diacritics, to blush soot from your lashes and the cartoon voice of the angelheaded baristas where the faucet is switched off from redacted
Prometheas all you could want buffet of fire, deep in life’s interior is the dream or the drama — if I am a conduit for being punched in meatspace to say every person is already in the poem saying ‘I’ for ‘aw’ say hello online in a burst of tiny energies, swift changes, inserts an otherworldliness within the world banality of movement; can a person really be a spider or a cyclone, like jouissance to speak of the symbiotic ana-cartharsis, triangulates how honey I shrunk the president is wanting to move in with you / how it is too much to meet this lyric transfer, taut love’s blank dream to be twisting and safe, people in the street have been multiplied lately like kissing, we are here, a sad reprisal
(2019)
mariaology 