12-09-2017, 08:36 AM
Meat & Bone
I
the soft moon a-hanged and propped from sevensea to skuggi by a trillion crooked stilts jabbed into the earth’s panoptic plane of partial skuggwa shoots lifelike across the emptiness and the fullness the fullness and the emptiness running cheek by jowl with all in all the soft moon a rope lashed around its middle skins half a pint of oranges over Jasna Gora and her black mOther theotokos-hodegetria bone runs deep through the veins of Czestochowa and stiffens the murderous deluge of screams like water made ice floeing into Luke’s arthritic mares come nightmares he looks up through the majestic ceiling beyond the deep blue calculating machine sky beyond the flabby moon beyond the planets and the sun beyond the galaxies and birdeye stars over the edge of the faint echo of infrasonic beginnings back through the galaxies and stars back passed the sun and the planets and the moon back back until finally he encounters himself encountering a stone
II
The insect supra-structure marches along the skirting board, folding, unfolding, breathing, unbreathing. Sleeping. Mouth Gaping. Bloody desk all dripping dropping. Solid blood. Four legged open artery, coagulated in suspense. I fish out two cubes of sugar and throw them into the courner. Wawl. Caterwaul. Circumambulator. Tiny dead ants. Circumambulator. Caterwaul, caterwaul. Swelling up, engulfing, pushing. Caterwaul. Sucking, sucking, vacuuming. Anti-circumambulatorant. Corpses, food now. No, not corpses. Not corpses but limbs. Amputated limbs. Scapes, funiculus’, tarus’, tarsal claws, tibias, tibia spurs, gasters… The dead ants are not corpses but useless limbs, eyes, ears, mouths. The living mouth eats the useless mouth. Ants, rope-like and smoke-like; whole worlds the size of eyelids. Head in a basket. Head-in-a-bask-et. Hymenoptra. Anti-ant. Hy-men-op-ter-a. More egged than wombed. More unfolded than born.
—humen, humen, humen! The screaming! The screaming! O for the oblivion of oblivion to stem this perpetual flow of words that are only spent when all our vegetable thinking is done and dust!
III
Jan stares at the sharp, warped, sliver of stone.
—What an unusual arrangement of solidness. What a solid arrangement of unusualness. Uselessness. Unusefulness! Jan says, parodying Luke’s highfaluting, endlessly prefixial and gratuitously suffixial way of saying.
But, Jan knows he is only partially playing at parody, for Luke’s whey of words crawls insidiously through the shallower waters of Jan’s own prattling. A small and broken bird is stapled to the top of Jan’s table, with its chest pinned open to its wings; half alive and the better half, dead.
—What do you suppose he spies in these insides—these guts? No, not guts—flesh. Skin. But dead, like meat.
—More like ban is that stan, said the bird to the man.
—Why, don’t be absurd, said the man to the bird.
—Shhh… what do little half alive half dead bastard birds know, anyway? But, a splinter of bone or a splinter of skin? In texture, like bone; holds the world up, holds its own. Yet, its outsides are in, Jan says jabbing the point of the flint into the birds opal eye. This bastard’s uneatable.
—It's not like bone or meat or skin, or anything. It's not like anything. It’s all surface and no substance. This sorry little stan, this fractional fuzzy stan, is cold and uncold, dry and undry, here and unhere, done and undone… Jan gets himself lost along a Lukish loop of words and not-words.
IV
A thousand minute communists pour out of the maternal hole; but one, one single enterprising autolater, drunk and doped on self satisfaction, has found acres and acres of ‘me-time’ in the elastic ecstatic moments of consumer oblivion. I should like to get that one, that little yum-yummer, stuck still atop the sugar cube, open him up and take a look at his workings; find the broken wheel or cog. Flames are licking the green afernung; licking the screams and the yells and the mournful cries to god, to Lucifer, to mothers and fathers, to children, to Jesus, to tables and chairs—to brothers, to sisters, to monsters, to angels, to fate and to freedom, to paths and to pathos, to light, to darkness, to life and to death. Poor lytel eleutherophiliac. No more drone droning for that one. Misplaced lytel libertine feasting on his own freedom. Will stew and be boiled in his ownish. Will rot away… rotrotrot away! Ant no free-en, that one.
V
Nightmerrily through the night does ol’ Ylang-ylangy go. Out to snatch a body or two… but… my stone? Ah, there. Lifted out the ol’ Jesuit boneyard where mOther and father are boxed and ready to go. Daddy-Mummy-me: oh, how that godawful triangulation pinpoints every fear, every love, every pain, every joy, every sickness. I am the holy trinity. I, the trilateral man: father son and holy ghost—not an existential ant, but a trigonal fly. Nastish, selfy, bloated, and dead as dead as dead. There are worms burrowing through my skin, eating away at the soft bits, making me thin. The brain, where the world slows, begins and ends and is equalised and pulverised and eaten, is itself food for thought. Thinking is where the world gets eaten, and thought is gradually consumed by thought, but it is not nourished. Thought is fat and hungry in equal measure. A feast of holes. I cre… cre… cre… ate my words. Words are worms, the byproduct of a ruined world. Worms are words, the overripe fruit of forces. Where’s my Jan-ylang? Gone to snatch a body or two.
VI
Jan cuts a sonnet through the dust spread like snow over the table top. A beautiful temporal verse. A temporarily beautiful verse. Sonneteer-o-sonneteer, collapses in a heap on the floor. Sonneteer-o-sonneteer, collects old Marry Marry quite contemptorary, with shaven head and French green dress, up the stairs and across the landing, into the room where music’s made. Beautiful, beautiful Marry, just legless enough to stand the understandable, to fuck the underfuckable. Jan, sweet slimy Jan, licks his needy sickly drivel all over her naked body; poems a dribble of obscenity across her dusty soft skin. His genital cooing descends into irreligious filth and prickardy pricking, jabberdy jabbing, tears glooping swashling lungs and cunts drippardy dropping; flesh ripped apart bleeding bones white and thickening spittle guts intestines spines and pissing books poetry rats and rock n' rolling…
VII
Marry said (he said she said), "in more than name be merry";
but I’m not sure as Jan he threads two wires through her banny
she looks all sad to me.
What’s a machine but blood an’ guts an’ hopes:
a soft desire dragged between the punch of sky and sand and sea.
—I loved her, says me Janny-jan,
creeping death through her and me.
I
the soft moon a-hanged and propped from sevensea to skuggi by a trillion crooked stilts jabbed into the earth’s panoptic plane of partial skuggwa shoots lifelike across the emptiness and the fullness the fullness and the emptiness running cheek by jowl with all in all the soft moon a rope lashed around its middle skins half a pint of oranges over Jasna Gora and her black mOther theotokos-hodegetria bone runs deep through the veins of Czestochowa and stiffens the murderous deluge of screams like water made ice floeing into Luke’s arthritic mares come nightmares he looks up through the majestic ceiling beyond the deep blue calculating machine sky beyond the flabby moon beyond the planets and the sun beyond the galaxies and birdeye stars over the edge of the faint echo of infrasonic beginnings back through the galaxies and stars back passed the sun and the planets and the moon back back until finally he encounters himself encountering a stone
II
The insect supra-structure marches along the skirting board, folding, unfolding, breathing, unbreathing. Sleeping. Mouth Gaping. Bloody desk all dripping dropping. Solid blood. Four legged open artery, coagulated in suspense. I fish out two cubes of sugar and throw them into the courner. Wawl. Caterwaul. Circumambulator. Tiny dead ants. Circumambulator. Caterwaul, caterwaul. Swelling up, engulfing, pushing. Caterwaul. Sucking, sucking, vacuuming. Anti-circumambulatorant. Corpses, food now. No, not corpses. Not corpses but limbs. Amputated limbs. Scapes, funiculus’, tarus’, tarsal claws, tibias, tibia spurs, gasters… The dead ants are not corpses but useless limbs, eyes, ears, mouths. The living mouth eats the useless mouth. Ants, rope-like and smoke-like; whole worlds the size of eyelids. Head in a basket. Head-in-a-bask-et. Hymenoptra. Anti-ant. Hy-men-op-ter-a. More egged than wombed. More unfolded than born.
—humen, humen, humen! The screaming! The screaming! O for the oblivion of oblivion to stem this perpetual flow of words that are only spent when all our vegetable thinking is done and dust!
III
Jan stares at the sharp, warped, sliver of stone.
—What an unusual arrangement of solidness. What a solid arrangement of unusualness. Uselessness. Unusefulness! Jan says, parodying Luke’s highfaluting, endlessly prefixial and gratuitously suffixial way of saying.
But, Jan knows he is only partially playing at parody, for Luke’s whey of words crawls insidiously through the shallower waters of Jan’s own prattling. A small and broken bird is stapled to the top of Jan’s table, with its chest pinned open to its wings; half alive and the better half, dead.
—What do you suppose he spies in these insides—these guts? No, not guts—flesh. Skin. But dead, like meat.
—More like ban is that stan, said the bird to the man.
—Why, don’t be absurd, said the man to the bird.
—Shhh… what do little half alive half dead bastard birds know, anyway? But, a splinter of bone or a splinter of skin? In texture, like bone; holds the world up, holds its own. Yet, its outsides are in, Jan says jabbing the point of the flint into the birds opal eye. This bastard’s uneatable.
—It's not like bone or meat or skin, or anything. It's not like anything. It’s all surface and no substance. This sorry little stan, this fractional fuzzy stan, is cold and uncold, dry and undry, here and unhere, done and undone… Jan gets himself lost along a Lukish loop of words and not-words.
IV
A thousand minute communists pour out of the maternal hole; but one, one single enterprising autolater, drunk and doped on self satisfaction, has found acres and acres of ‘me-time’ in the elastic ecstatic moments of consumer oblivion. I should like to get that one, that little yum-yummer, stuck still atop the sugar cube, open him up and take a look at his workings; find the broken wheel or cog. Flames are licking the green afernung; licking the screams and the yells and the mournful cries to god, to Lucifer, to mothers and fathers, to children, to Jesus, to tables and chairs—to brothers, to sisters, to monsters, to angels, to fate and to freedom, to paths and to pathos, to light, to darkness, to life and to death. Poor lytel eleutherophiliac. No more drone droning for that one. Misplaced lytel libertine feasting on his own freedom. Will stew and be boiled in his ownish. Will rot away… rotrotrot away! Ant no free-en, that one.
V
Nightmerrily through the night does ol’ Ylang-ylangy go. Out to snatch a body or two… but… my stone? Ah, there. Lifted out the ol’ Jesuit boneyard where mOther and father are boxed and ready to go. Daddy-Mummy-me: oh, how that godawful triangulation pinpoints every fear, every love, every pain, every joy, every sickness. I am the holy trinity. I, the trilateral man: father son and holy ghost—not an existential ant, but a trigonal fly. Nastish, selfy, bloated, and dead as dead as dead. There are worms burrowing through my skin, eating away at the soft bits, making me thin. The brain, where the world slows, begins and ends and is equalised and pulverised and eaten, is itself food for thought. Thinking is where the world gets eaten, and thought is gradually consumed by thought, but it is not nourished. Thought is fat and hungry in equal measure. A feast of holes. I cre… cre… cre… ate my words. Words are worms, the byproduct of a ruined world. Worms are words, the overripe fruit of forces. Where’s my Jan-ylang? Gone to snatch a body or two.
VI
Jan cuts a sonnet through the dust spread like snow over the table top. A beautiful temporal verse. A temporarily beautiful verse. Sonneteer-o-sonneteer, collapses in a heap on the floor. Sonneteer-o-sonneteer, collects old Marry Marry quite contemptorary, with shaven head and French green dress, up the stairs and across the landing, into the room where music’s made. Beautiful, beautiful Marry, just legless enough to stand the understandable, to fuck the underfuckable. Jan, sweet slimy Jan, licks his needy sickly drivel all over her naked body; poems a dribble of obscenity across her dusty soft skin. His genital cooing descends into irreligious filth and prickardy pricking, jabberdy jabbing, tears glooping swashling lungs and cunts drippardy dropping; flesh ripped apart bleeding bones white and thickening spittle guts intestines spines and pissing books poetry rats and rock n' rolling…
VII
Marry said (he said she said), "in more than name be merry";
but I’m not sure as Jan he threads two wires through her banny
she looks all sad to me.
What’s a machine but blood an’ guts an’ hopes:
a soft desire dragged between the punch of sky and sand and sea.
—I loved her, says me Janny-jan,
creeping death through her and me.