Wednesday, April 21, 2010

The Body In Difference (the ecstatic option)



Remaking the self to satisfy the longing for difference; a little death here a little there, the equation of hunger for the now. He or she so painfully returning. And by their fathers: no more complaints or compliments. The soft constraints of constructed rubber and flesh. The cinema of evening, the frailty of purchase. I hold these as evident of the bust. The expectation of a better something, somewhere far away. These petite births give way to a better forgetting, the strums of the things we strung better before. Exacting en route to the things we dreamt about. This anticipation leaves us haunted by the future. The always fable, no shape for yokel. Yet another maudlin technique. The appropriation of mobility in our excess faults. This is bliss, our entrance to exits, our forgotten forevers. We create clusters, the connected things, and call that home. The comfort of elation (when given) allows for other stings. We worry less about the boring things that end up being being. It is our exacting ecstasy that makes meaning mean being exact. Our horror, our humor, our rummaged trunks. How does one begin to satisfy the narrative of the body? The continued ambition of entertainment, of lust. You spend more and more time equating one with another, the two cease to fathom as fact. This is how it authors me, in the other gymnasium.

Yet another viewpoint of conditional endlessness: Sloppiness becomes my inner-city splendor. A western bulge of sentences and futile flakes, he is moderation as modulation, a perfect setting of sets. Some homes around town have shutters. The age progression towards a style named Dusty. Everything may be a flashback, a some said ecstasy remembered fondly and forced future tense hurried with a wave, a soft linger, a song. We change all the time we change so much. We are ecstatic and laid down with each purr. And, still, are nervous with the approach, the account of some silence, the fade. Even the blind see black.

Bottoms of mythos, therefore we’re mystic. We’e slapping, burning and walking and back to the birth we aimed at ten minutes ago. We retrieve our meanings via missed messages mismanaged to the core. Found to be the same as before.

It is cliche to harvest your father’s genitals. It’s a little unreliable. With each noun I’ve entertained ambiguity. These are the reasons why we’re always so untrustworthy. This body entertains ecstasy as if it were a fault. The bitch-slap made more bitter by the very fact of it’s action.

I will take your body backwards.

I will will my body the way you want to remember it.