Points ‘side a cell



These people—for you know, of any character I might describe, they may be first of the tiniest kind, growing in a sea, then of the root kind, of which we aren’t interested—these people, who not only claim a personhood each but also laugh to the point their laughter injures you in a real sweet point, where wine does not touch or even glance near (for you have been drunk, and undone that membrane between you and yours; and to differentiate, you have been yourself in one certain space, likely enclosed, and your other has been opposite you sitting uncomfortably saying those miserable syllables that undo you) you, for I follow you thus far if you have followed me, for I follow you. And if you have wearied your eyes so far, since I know you are a silent sort, I know I know you, and not your sort.

Therefore, I know you. As with anyone I must describe you. And your body, as you have learned, is also you, though I only know you as an animal with this body, as your animal body knows mine, the growths of cells in certain shades and lengths; though I must, as the dead of old, may only describe you respectfully if you describe you as one of my species, and not as one apart. So shortly I may begin.

You have brown eyes. You would not call yourself a brown-eyed girl. That, vulgar as you get, is your greatest distance, since you should sooner call yourself my only lover. But the blue-eyed boys would be neither closer or further from what you, you simulacrum, are in my simple Saxon tongue to me than I could fathom in the deepness of my air that reddens my eyes as I cradle my weeping as the folks you know so well laugh in their conversation perhaps five feet from me. And they are greater people than I will ever glimpse, in their short happiness. How disgusting, they say, despite their voices.

I have thus seen their miracle.

You have other eyes than what I have seen, since I look so shortly at you. What color does matter, if I may bear you a question, may I bother you so. And perhaps  not—it is reading oak, what reading you is. Lord may I bear something wicked. And oh what the last hundred years have done us in finely. No woods, oh, no chanting, neither religion, neither goingness—that having been here then anywhere but here. In the woods of Tremblay there died monks and boys and all manner of chests that…

I will hush. I will curry favor. And I will…

Genet, that villain, hushes in the drinking party, where only he is drunk, knowing a portion of himself, daring not to give himself that fraction—knowing this girl and her grievances, her accusations of “living other peoples’ lives,” so he paraphrases—drunk on his adulthood and eighty pages of…

So he lives on ignorance, and, as we say, eating shit, sickening ourselves, as the girls turn boisterous. And in one certainty, we gross ourselves; in another, throw our limbs back, the good half back.

Or, while the gullet…

Or if we share an arm…

Drunk and happy, departed and happy, us bastards…

~ by Jeremy on January 26, 2013.

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