All music is a study of liquid. For those who wait
behind windows, watching the world catch green and
burst into cacophony, the study of music is also a
phenomenology of reflection; you enter the water by
peering into it, seeing your form slide across its
unceasing motion: this is how you photograph her,
peripherally. A fluid scholarship positions a cinch of
pain that fades over the margins of my voice. She
draws stars from my heart, sparks of droplets, rain
catching fire in this new refusal to fall blindly, to
bend around the parameters of her motion until the
room spins away. Where can a room such as this go on
similar mornings?
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from Dirty Milk
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Type: discussion
Comments
This thrum musters in arcs piles of lips, tossing her
from one daub of semen'd kleenex to another usage in
production's placement and witness projection league.
I need you holografted onto my face these deadly
afternoons; one set of features will never be enough
to scald the hours between leaving and return pink
like a hot new pimple. So I rise and fall with your
voice just as the wind does? Watch me wrap it around
me–people love the softness of your greetings
scratching my nipples out like nightmare eyes.
It's true that I'm in the middle of moving across the
face of genders in the deep. Hot wax poured across her
ribcage furrowed like cultivating steppes in the deep.
When all the lights go out, silver curses she seals
in my core rotate granular fantasies, spilling salt on
a bird's tail in the deep. In the deep, everyone
flies: a slim Virginian with a belt-buckle as big as
my head.
=====
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net art review: http://www.netartreview.net/
tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html
furtherfield: http://www.furtherfield.org/home.html
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I was living in the desert, and my dead stepfather was
concerned about the water. You use too much, he said:
you're fat and thought and flesh. It was true that my
thighs whispered when I walked.
the season
all out
of proportion
with you
the sum
of early spring
eats
the taper
from her wrists
I went to wash my hands of the cold desert night. The
sink basin teemed with carnivorous fish. They slid and
splashed in my denial. When I turned the water on,
they quickened. They begin to eat each other with an
angry hunger.
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from across
the parking lot
an empty doll
in a still car
ducks split the water
You wake one day with overcast at your heels. The
trees are mute and hang limply from the sky. Dirt
smudged on blacktop in the shape of motion. You cross
the room to clean in the mirror. A voice from some
other day ruffles your flesh.
from across
the glass
a face
on a voice
you're dirty
=====
NEW!!!–sondheim.exe–artware text editor for Windows
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