Saturday, June 19, 2004

Plussed

Yeah, I'm finally back. I plan on making a post about that trip when I get it, maybe, we'll see what happens.

I read five books in one week, there was so much of nothing else to do. I will talk about that when I make a post (and if).

The principal one among these books, the one I most enjoyed, was Upton Sinclair's The Jungle. This book almost made me cry when I was reading it (and I haven't cried since I was a child--seems to me to be when I hurt my knee or something). It was also highly moving, and it endlessly pans through my mind still, to this day, after having read it days and days ago. I recommend the book, very highly, ostensibly; I think anyone should read it--it will make you consider things.

What's it about? Well, I'll get into that when I make my post, later on tonight. It was written in 1907, and it still packs the same power, let me tell you. I think this has to be one of my favorite favorite books I've ever read.

But, anyway. Let's see if reading those five books has helped my writing, shall we? Here I have is a verbose excursion. I'd call it a poem. Enjoy.

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my naked hands, wry & lavish, feel upon the bed, move upon its surface; these hands tingle; they are supersensitive. touch after touch, plussed, gives forth to the lust; in each gentle stroke of the bedsheet i feel in my fingers an itch; feel a sensation as if i would like to rip out of this skin and have that feeling, full, which is covered in the flesh; to have only the pleasurable rapt and none of the physical limitation, nor none of the hurt which wallows in the gallows-the very sallow-faced human form-and torments, and torments and torments carnally and sworn up the bereaved wearing of my spine. all the same i do carry the wreck of my mind; hear its bickerings and its design, its very own crimes. to the depths they say, the bars and cell of the illicit condemning of an innocent man forced in full to the whips of a wicked wrought reality. suffer, and do the time. pendulum swinging verily from the grandfather clock in the darkest midnight of the house-rather called a hellhole, a veritable housing of the innocuous desires and harrowing inundations of the place where residence is established. it is here, in the limitations of the nature, and the limitations of the reality, that i shall shakedown myself, breaking free the moorings, and be free.

an antipathy of apathy, i am on this bed; there is no dread. there is nothing dead. it is only being fed its dinner, the desires overwhelming the one who cannot surrender and contain himself. a being too sly shy & tried, the judge, the jury, the executioner, that is who he is. he slams the gavel down and gives the verdict; he decides the verdict; he acts on the verdict, delivering the stoutly swang blow beyond a reason of a doubt.

the beautiful woman, taken many forms, a stirring within the guilty mind. two fallible red bounties aparted for the bequeather’s own lips to trust. let them flutter to each other as the passion is drowned in the muddy muck of the river’s bottom. let them drift as one to the bottom, weighted with each other. let them suffer for the air and sunshine of a blossoming day, and shudder and shake as they drown to death.

and here is parted them with rigor mortis setting in upon their features-dead as a doornail with the final nail to the coffin, still coalescing in each other’s arms. this is the death of something too good to last which this coy shy & young demurer has never had. he still tries to learn to swim and hopes to drown with woe one day, a temple for him to enter and worship unduly open and agape to this lake he builds.

i am upon the bed, thoughts demeated out of my head, and i rock a bye baby & hear the bed moan in lament with me. the mind’s eye lets me see the pretty woman of desire, an impune startling being with that thing imparted as “beauty.” for in her that is what there is.

the trees? natural, mundane dancers in the open wind. paved roads-the sky-the endless antiquities of this world-all overshown and overdone-“there’s nothing new under the sun.” this sun. everything is a mire, a pitiless pit dug to depth. but she who in this guilty mind prevails-that is “new,” that is “under the sun” that is “beauty,” in its stark simpleness, she is non sequitur to all else. truly she is a rare and unseen thing. how she can carry about herself so carelessly with all that beauty. oh, if only i were not so shy & inward, then i would entreaty her to be careful with that beauty, to exploit it but keep it forever. oh, if only i could own the veritable beautiful bounty that is her own ripe for the picking body. but she is where she is, and i am where i am, and i am not a talker, and she is not talking, and i see her now standing within the depths of a darkly lit crevice where she has locked herself in. when i lay eyes upon her i remove my gaze as to not attach attention or suspicion, and when i am looking away, she is all i see as an afterimage in my eyes and the endlessly echoing semblance of myself.

i am poisoned. the poison seeps the arteries and veins and capillaries of my black-as-hole heart. i am empty, needing the be filled, and just a glance, just a lookingover of her is enough to sate the empty with a thudding redness. the madblood courses over me and i tell myself one day she will be mine. but she is gone. even so, there are others on the grape vine of lust whose flesh ripens with the fetid of “beauty.” i shall pick many of these grapes and ferment from them a wine which i will drink from a goblet and get drunk off of. the taste as it enters my mouth is a sweet bitter thing because i know the grapes i have procured for my own imbibing shall not last, that i cannot get drunk like this forever. that is lust to the leaves, a fine irreverence too drunkening, too bestial to last but ephemerally: it is the problem with all good things.

once a tendency is developed, lust falls from the stem of rotten grapes, withering. and the wine does not taste so fine when those rotten grapes are plucked. rather it does nothing & tastes repulsive & is aged wrong. for this wine is unlike usual wine. to get drunk from it now is impossible, and to do so brims on lethargy & a broken-entered precipice called love. i will have none of that at this ripe age. i am poisoned and must not get poisoned more by the likes of that.

on the bed i am beyond myself and all, and i imagine her. she takes many forms but all amount the same thing: a giving in to the desire, the pining, a release of the passion; to that is what it goes. the bed is a woman, the woman a bed, whereupon i lie and is my territory to reign. like a bear i leave my scratches to the trees; like the ant i serve the queen; like the rose i green (with small thorns whose point is sharp); and like the world spinning, the universe infiniting, me grinning, i am to it as is everything, and i cannot deviate from what is my purpose here.

so it ends, my head reeling.

the release of the feeling.

and for that moment in time, all is well with me. i have been satisfied by my own imagination, the lust i reprieve.

onward i dream. the cell i am in has sentenced me to hang someday. it is with hope beyond hope that i never need use the rope, but that time will infest my skin, a tick, and disease me and ail me with its decaying fingers, crawling all over me. but sometimes, this cell is mighty lonely, and the shadows decrying me sometimes seem to creep into me and make me wish to break this neck rightly with that noose. but perhaps i am just morbidly obtuse.

i have nothing to lose-everything to gain-and i think that’s what scares me the most, that i might throw this all away without having her. or doing my foot’s impression in this real world. but first i must jiffy open this lock in my cell, and tiptoe on out and see this hell,

and that’s only to be eventually captured, and put back in this cell. because i’d rather live here in my head than in this hell. and i’d rather have her to keep me well. until then the bars give a shadow to these eyes, and my outside window shows the sun’s rays as i gaze out with dead eyes.

dead eyes embittered with a fighting guise, a ready-open fighting that dilates the pupils and warms my thighs.
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