Bad things going in and coming out of holes
woundy disaster zones (oh no).
Effect within the subject’s modifications; speech (parapraxes; etc.), body (symptoms).
[List] probably self-inflicted.
I’m just clouded over with this shit.
I’m not stupid: no medication this time.
You can’t experiment with your health.
I thought I was in control.
I was not in control. Not healed.
The cramp shot through my whole body to my brain.
Were they just not aware of the sheer terror and warfare?
The random terror that was crawling underneath my skin?
Surrendering to the harsh landscape,
she’s your country now. Your homeland within.
If her body was in estate she could control
whatever the advantage was in its ownership.
It won’t be long till you’re inside.
Frustrated, when you took the ticket,
took the train to the end of the line.
The driver's head rose slowly against the waste of sky.
We’re losing signal, now we’ve lost connection.
Prohibitions divide deep lines and paved two paths you wandered through,
departing and severing pursued desires.
This authority shapes the body into a territory having
distorted lines, stolen signs. To enforce a divide.
Love in loveless architecture they faced each other
as it were from opposing territories,
but like troops at Christmas time they fraternised.
I’m crossing a threshold.
I feel you now, feel me.
Tracing my steps into orifices, into blue, into you. Edging closer.
Tensions were rising over borderlines.
I put you on a plane, destined for a foreign land
hoping you’d come back one day.
Surfaces and kinks of a hollow
the landslides in.
Every wall has an ear pressed against it.
Our home is where we are not.
A terror that divides, a hatred that smiles.
I just want out. I know it's early
but I'm bored of life. Night night xxx
Vacancy starred in the swing mirror:
no message just crumbs on the floor.
For the shrink the important object is lost,
always desired and never reached,
the thing that causes the subject to desire
in cases where he can never gain the satisfaction of holding the object.
Any object the subject desires will never be anything but a substitute for the lost object.
One life, one love, one lover.
When you’re in this world,
surely the best thing you can do,
is to get out of it?
“This is a good hospital.
They have medicines.
“They don’t always work do they?”
“They never work if you ask me.”
Craving [body as a shitty party]
Throbbing and not stopping
aching in my head
Death on the instalment plan.
More peak blues
An inner collision
Whose intimate side is suffering
and horror it's public feature.
Ugly as fuck.
I love just wasting my life,
I've been steeped in the internet my whole life.
Binge watching crap and then not pulling the trigger.
I was staring at the internet and my eyes weren’t wet enough.
They just weren’t producing enough tears.
I’d watch all those sappy, tear jerkers
and nothing would happen.
Not enough, never enough
life is to be a chain of flirtation with a man for every link
and I want them all coated in sugar.
You bite off the end nib,
all directed at him,
You know everyone adores you.
And so Isabelle sized up her antagonist.
She really cleaned that bad boy out.
For a delicious hour that passed too soon they glided the silent roads about Princeton
and talked from the surface of their hearts in shy excitement.
He said in a dry monotone “I am a man of unclean lips.”
I said he should see mine.
Language turns into slobber and stuttering
“when you consider, for instance, the ways in which words are formed and uttered, human speech fails to stand up to the test of all this spittle.”
Turning the junk over in my mouth.
“The mechanical effort we make in speaking is more complicated and arduous than defecation.”
Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare.
He is obviously very unhappy,
she is quite bored.
Egotistical highways 99% self centred.
Rosalind goes to the glass where she gazes at herself with great satisfaction
clouding the waters of Narcissus’s pool
and there I took a horny little nap in the dried up pool I had created.
That soft milky sludge. She wants what she wants when she wants it.
Divided between boredom, abjection and piercing laughter.
Rosalind had been disappointed in man after man as individuals,
but she had great faith in man as a sex.
Domesticated, I wanted to puke too much to give my voice a chance.
Transporting the body to the place of the other,
both being ransacked, but leaving a trace, a gesture, a voice.
Rosalind is alone,
sitting on the lounge staring very moodily and unhappily at nothing.
Oh dear [abjection is a sort of narcissistic crisis] OH GREAT.
I can’t change his mood.
He can walk away from all that he wishes.
And he walks away so damn well from me.
You can’t blame him for it.
Filling the hole just made the hole bigger.
Romantic obsession - possession. Possessed.
Everyone belongs to all others and all belong to everyone.
All are slaves and equal in slavery.
wouldn’t it be nice to round myself with whoever’s mouth
She just might become my lover for real.
Sounds like a good daydream.
The fantasy of incorporation:
Love will come to you on Wednesday.
I only can remember the dick going in.
It overflows, spilling over.
You fucked me so good that I almost said, "I love you."
This is how I turn the other person into a higher power.
Because you're my religion, you're how I'm now living.
I bore a hole in myself at the thought of my lord you
Man/god: a dietary distinction
and Christ relieves: “And took him aside from the multitude,
and put his fingers into his ears,
and he spit,
and touched his tongue;
and looking up to heaven,
he sighed, and said unto him,
Ephphatha, that is,
And straightaway his ears were opened,
and the string of his tongue was loosened,
and he spake plain: “Kiss me on my open mouth
I’m ready for you”
It’s very Jesus take the wheel up here from the botched together facts that I know.
Let's take Jesus off the dashboard,
he’s got enough on his mind.
I tend to retreat into fantasy a lot.
I have a lot of trouble receiving pleasure.
Never growing up/ I don’t want to grow up.
If you could just bathe me in hot cheese with no repercussions.
I thought I could create that fantasy but,
as I realised,
you bring yourself everywhere,
so that's shit.
more more more = equal.
Not enough, never enough.
I could drink it like tequila sunrise.
Isabelle and Amory were distinctly not innocent.
Amateur standing had very little standing in the game they were playing
I like things good
cocooned in a warmth filled filter
My skin looks great in sepia
If that was the sexy dream
and then this is the emotional hangover
It has a very chesty ache.
But that might just be the cheese. I know how to mourn the death of a fantasy.
Fearing fun, fearing love
A “borderline” patient.
Leading the patient [me] towards the “good” object
the real object of desire
fantasized according to the normal criteria.
But who's first instinct is to turn to the healthy and good?
You have different orifices to me. Yet they don’t fit.
The present didn’t exist.
Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of [a withered] spring,
and heaven was just a word: hell was something I could trust.
A brain was only capable of what it could conceive,
and I couldn’t conceive what I had never experienced.
It sounds like long distance,
too far away.
It's got that open-air sound you know?
I wanted to see him.
For years afterwards when Amory thought of Eleanor he seemed still to hear the wind sobbing around him and sending little chills into places beside his heart.
Immersing people in discomfort.
For if we could be satisfied with anything, we should have been satisfied a long time ago.
She made me mutate,
turning myself from the inside
to the out. Tear me apart,
pull me open (look inside)
see the corrosion
It’s now so slow to digest
But I will let you enter me
Pass through me
Got a bad hunger
Your thoughts deprive.
I must have triggered something.
The heart cuts body parts. I still feel the pain.
Now you grow more distant, I see you're not with me but against me and at me
He had taken the most violent,
if the weakest, method to shield himself from the stabs of memory.
I want to be sick over something else
Sick little life. Both begged for and pulverised.
Forfeited, I delight in pain instead.
My arsehole is never a vacant space.
It’s blended shit. I prefer blended shit.
She couldn’t normalise, she was traumatised
and from there it was easy to slide into a phantom world where all men,
the more you liked them,
the more evil they were.
Swallow them up.
The body turned inside out,
sent back from deep within the guts,
the bowels turned over in the mouth,
food mingled with excretions,
fainting spells, horrors, and resentments:
so she vomits herself up again.
I like to know the calories that are in food.
It makes me feel swaddled.
Swaddled in my insanity.
This guilt is craving, this comfort: it’s quilt.
So I'm having a poor man's feast.
And by that I mean reconstituted skimmed MILK, coconut oil, sugar, water, glucose-fructose syrup, whey protein (MILK), skimmed MILK powder, WHEAT flour, fat reduced cocoa powder, emulsifiers (mono- and diglycerides of fatty acids, SOY lecithin), flavouring, stabilisers (locust bean gum, guar gum, carrageenan), raising agent (ammonium carbonate), salt. I got them fresh.
This was a thought-out thing, obsessed over,
a lot of maths was involved.
It can consume me.
Why are we taking 259 calories to the high power?
I’m all stomach and teeth when it's the seventh day in a row with the same cashier.
Oh no, I should've kept my receipts,
because the sandwich I bought has been off for a week.
For twenty minutes I sat consuming
bacon buns (from my plate) and boys’ affection (from my phone).
Because who eats just one?
I am not the only one that devours,
I am being devoured by him, and a third person (he) is devouring me too.
To save myself,
I reject and throw up everything given to me.
Phobia sent me here to abort,
a metaphor of want. My guts are on the floor.
Pollution by want, because you want more you want more you want more
I am going to eat until it hurts
pollution by food.
The more disgusting shit is, the more I’m into it. My hunger has that feral quality.
I lay her body down.
Abandoned bodies (flesh/ blood) by numb minds.
Bind me to you like
bloodless flesh (destined for man) is bound
to blood (destined for God, the full time daddy, bloodsucker)
No healed scars,
only open wounds,
shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but still wounds.
Instead of a maternal love is an emptiness.
Outgrowing a natural repugnance for dirt to illness and needles,
and deriving a highly specialised education from his mother.
A wife can be a mother to her husband and a son can be a husband or a mother to his mother and a daughter can be a sister or a mother to her mother who can be a father and a mother to her daughter.
I am not mad, but that is where I exist.
The rain has turned my sense to mush.
Whether I’m mad or not, frightened or not
I’m down the rabbit hole again.
A universe of borders, seesaws,
fragile and mingled identities,
wanderings of the subject and the objects,
fears and struggles.
Sex/sickness grows hollow, decays,
and crumbles in a threesome with anxiety + depression.
Shit’s even brighter now you’re gone.
I miss Long Beach and I miss you.
Scars become maps. It begs again, worries,
and now I’m caught up by the taste in her mouth
which does not let itself be seduced.
Apprehensive, desire turns aside, sickened, it rejects.
Repelling rejecting repelling itself rejecting itself.
I haven’t been jerking off much lately.
A vegetable state safe space.
Inanimate objects get my attention as the potato’s sexuality contorts to become polymorphic.
I mean it does taste like wax on the one hand,
but it is also a frosting delight.
Motioning him away arrived in a graceful lump in the soft mud where he sat laughing at herself. Her voice was full of laughter.
A basic sick white girl approaches the hysterical body which stopped gorging, so it might speak. I couldn't initiate but I couldn’t respond.
She was silent for the rest of our conversation yet she was not passive.
Singing blues has been getting old.
The decay of it, infection, disease, corpse of the relationship.
My ego threatened my non ego when his heart beat against my own.
All impressions and, in fact, all ideas were extremely kaleidoscopic to Isabelle.
I want excitement;
I don't care what form it takes or what I pay for it,
so long as it makes my heart beat again.
A margin of a floating structure.
Dive in, dive deep and dive blue, my sweet.
Out of depth I’m taking off my swimming costume.
Another flow that mingles two identities.
When lightning strikes one of us it strikes both.
Let's just get lost, that's what we want
A spoiled athlete sprinting
Running out of time
I don’t know what’s up with this dead body smell.
It’s a new feature.
Maybe the way I live is killing me.
What goes out of the body,
out of it’s pores and openings,
well I was basically just a walking zit.
And I’m wasted.
I can’t survive.
I need to see this night though.
Not supposed/borrowed time.
On Monday, they destroyed me but by Friday,
God knows I lived
God knows I died
God knows I loved
God knows I lied
God knows I begged
Begged, borrowed, and cried
God knows I lost
God gave me life
And God knows I tried
So let there be light
Let there be light
Light up my life
Light up my life
Assuming i won't get into an accident along the way.
Maybe I should play it safer.
Emergence of uncanniness
A bit déjà vuy.
An opaque and forgotten life
But not nothing either.
“Something” that I do not recognise as a thing.
A weight of meaninglessness,
about which there is nothing insignificant,
and which crushes me
… a reality that,
if I acknowledge it,
A lapse, discomfort, shame, or blunder.
It’s always fucking there to sink it's fucking teeth in.
Urine, blood, sperm, excrement then show up and assure me that I am still here.
Rotten, drained and blocked.
Not that i have stalkers.
There's been a couple of weirdos,
look there was this one guy who would
email me like everyday like five times a day
with some really really gross shit
and I blocked him. It took me a little while,
it always takes me a little while to block people.
but with this guy there was some sexual violence so he had to go.
And now he's spreading the stalking around!
Cause i thought i was the only one getting stalked.
At least only stalk me.
Look I don’t care, I don’t care.
Mess - worse (emotional mess) - self aware mess, anxiety of the mess
I’ll cope the way I do.
Soaking it in.
prohibition as guiltless loveless sins flow.
So what could the strongest dreaming achieve?
that you happened to look like what pleased some soppy old Greek sculpture as it pleased me too.
Wearing black to her house party,
her education, or rather, her sophistication,
had been absorbed from the boys. Flirt smiled
from her large black-brown eyes
and shone through her intense physical magnetism.
Amory wasn’t good enough for Clara.
your putrid ooze swallows me
lust + greed - to possess always more - an appetite that cannot be sated.
A little party never hurt no one.
Wine is flowing with Bacardi
and Tom was rather inclined to finish anything in a liquid way that he began.
"Sofia is a waitress, for the time being," my father said in Greek.
I am other things, too.
I have a first class degree and a master's.
I am pulsating with an unquenchable desire.
I am sex on tanned legs and infinitely sick.
I am urban and educated and currently godless,
I’m not that into daddies.
A fleshwound blooms
You don't know when to stop.
Sponging pus and sores.
I want to give a really bad party.
I mean it.
Into these moods I slip as a refuge.
Sorrow lay around me.
the word echoed hygienically on among the porcelain basins,
the taps and plugs and bogs.
I tried to keep her from herself.
another half, the other half, sad, halfway over, halfway home.
The wound where you entered is kept open, gaping.
There is so much pleasure in scratching it, where it is bound, enchained.
I scratch so hard
It’s very easy to be frenetic and in motion
Infinite scrolling: limitless appetite
Craving, I want more than what I deserve.
I just want something infinite and mine.
I wish I couldn’t give a shit.
Don’t reduce the world to this,
but rampancy, boundlessness,
the untiring repetition of a drive,
which, propelled by an initial loss,
does not cease wondering,
unsated, deceived, warped,
until it finds the only stable object - death.
I enjoy the mania:
let me just focus on this one thing that means nothing to the exclusion of all else.
Let me take the messiness,
the unknown and just distill it down to one thing that is within my control.
All my survival mechanisms have become way out of proportion.
So now I have their entire stock.
Panic at the Disco? Manic at the pound shop.
You know, and then I get emotionally attached to these people from a five minute video.
and then i look up the actor
and he's fucking 300 women with the same drugged up look on his face
and i realise, he doesn’t really love her, he's just acting.
Fear is my north star.
I always catastrophize.
I kind of grandiose the narrative.
What am I giving birth to?
It’s not a maggot but it’s feed for maggots
Smelling of shit in an extraordinary combination of textures: my shit baby.
My ass is where your cock was born
The heat of it's body was fierce and feral
as my heartbeat hammered into the warm earth beneath me.
It makes me feel like I surf or skateboard
and feels very hot. That's in-n-out baby
dualistic and dissolving.
He sticks his finger in the wound
He plunges both hands into my meat
He digs into all of the holes
Tearing away the soft edges
He gets stuck and the juice pours out,
a live stream, gushing all over the place
Full of brains and blood, splashing
It never goes well
But still I pine.
low self esteem where my taste buds taste everything disgusting as beautiful.
It was beautiful, he was beautiful, I was beautiful.
I like things good, fresh + creamy,
(sickly sweet) sweetness which lacks everywhere else.
I have a long, strange relationship with food,
it's my longest bad relationship.
And all of my peaches are ruined (Bitch)
Are ruined (Bitch), are ruined (Fuck!)
Rotting on the vine
urge to purge
In a pool of filth
I waste away
It’s all a crock of shit
The spasms and vomiting protect me
In my head I'm getting dead tired of this shit you've caused
retching thrusts me on the side
A frenzied outpouring
Slipping into filth and sewage
and muck (clean, unclean).
Existence had settled back to ambitionless normality.
Sex in a sick bed
pricking me in my bad feelings.
A good time for me is when I’m unconscious.
My meditation usually happens in bed,
where most of my life happens.
Vibrator close at hand
and all my bedroom stuff just swirling round.
Him in me through oral (dietary) satisfaction,
apocalyptic lust for swallowing up the other,
I’m the reason you flow
Polluting myself with food,
I had been manipulating my emotions with drugs and alcohol
I miss you on my lips
I want it so much
If I could just feel good all the time
I like the food and life to be flowing seamlessly into one another
I love to eat in transitional moments
Food becomes abject only if it is a boundary between two distinct entities or territories
I am recovering from a fantasy I projected on a young man’s body
He didn’t speak so I just projected
I wanted to go where he was going
Every other hour seemed like a wasted hour that composed my entire life,
another little prison.
The shame of compromise, of being in the middle of guilt
I still get trashed when I hear of you
False hope. Follow but no chat.
Always he turned away from me and left me holding
Nothing in my hands and staring at it,
calling it many things,
but knowing it was only the hope
that he would be back soon.
I scrunched my pillow hard,
and put the back of my neck against it to slow circulation
and slept for a while
A waking nightmare
Not so much waking as turning over in my bed
Dear, don't think of getting out of bed yet
I've always suspected that early rising in early life makes one nervous
He lay awake in the darkness and wondered how much he cared
how much of his sudden unhappiness was hurt vanity
Anyway what was a promise to a head that was sick?
Immersed in fear
my first mistake was leaving the house.
Amory paced the boardwalk at day’s end,
lulled by the everlasting surge of changing waves,
smelling the half-mournful odour of the salt breeze.
Impelled to start afresh,
I am on a journey into the night,
the end of which never comes.
unrememberable hours, eclipsed.
The weeks tore by
While the earth remaineth,
seedtime and harvest,
and cold and heat,
and summer and winter,
and day and night shall not cease.
The oldest star is about 13 billion years old
but the stars on my screen saver are two years old and were made in China.
When I get lost they’ll be no one there to take my hand
The scent was like oblivion, a trance
The arch of the desert jasmine was a coma zone
I love the meltiness
I turn to take my own medicine
Cause that's what you do in a town where yellow lights mean slow down
not speed up.
bile [confused with love],
increased heart beat,
dizziness, nausea: I expel myself,
I spit myself out.
Inverting pure/impure dichotomy into an outside/inside one.
Got nothing to loose
Neither of us remain
Nonono you can't be in here right now
I mean that trespassing’s not healthy
Replace me already
There’s no relief, no release
You're revvin' and revvin' and revvin' it up
Leave if you want to leave
[I don’t understand]
As an exile who asks “where?”
All I'd like is a little home in the country,
some warm country,
and just enough to do to keep from rotting
I’m still not over this shit.
I don’t know where you start, or where I begin
Pussy footing around
where you are alone, singular,
untouchable, unsociable, discredited,
at the end of the night
We talk in epic voice message of bullshit
I wish you were doing better
A deject who places (himself),
separates (himself) instead of
bearing, desiring, belonging
You got out of hand
Straying to the territories of the animal
[such a scorpio]
Am I afraid of being bitten again,
or am I afraid of biting?
I’ve got to keep myself sane, shit
The contamination of life by death
Everyone tells themselves that their deaths would be heroic.
I’ve ruined you.
So I’m ruined am I?
My body chemistry is fucked.
What am I going to doooooo?
Face my life or masturbate?
You get ready,
you get all dressed up to go nowhere in particular
Taking all my medicine to take my thoughts away
I push away with hands that hurt
Paralyzed legs not able to escape it all
Rotating 360 to avoid
Your head would be angry and hurt to see
vertigo, infinite quest
we're on a quick, sick rampage:
wining and dining,
drinking and driving,
excessive buying, overdose and dying.
Don’t tell me about it.
I didn’t need to feed this shit.
Grant me peace.
Forgive me forgive me forgive me.
Kicking and screaming.
Tricking and scheming.
The scars of your dealings.
Signals crossing can get confusing.
Trying to transmit, can you hear me?
Lying to herself
I did nothing all morning but I made my bed then got back in it
and thought about the warm bodies I could have been with.
I lie in bed.
You lay between the sheets with me,
my lying love.
Lies can buy eternity.
Take advantage of them.
I’ll let you be bad.
Conjure up abuse.
I know you are all deep and fake:
I can’t deal false cards.
I’ve got no chance.
I promise nothing.
I just felt a little haunted,
so I had to distracted myself with the gram.
It’ll buy me a year if I play my cards right.
My orifices hallucinate nothing.
What fills up this oasis of absence?
All my aches are catching up with me,
piercing me through and through,
my forehead, my arms, my ears,
I’ve had it, fuck that shit!
I’m getting down, off this ride.
I’ve got hold of the railing.
Just a bit dizzy.
And here I am again,
quaking, in front of him.
I ask myself again and again when I’m with him.
I’m stumbling over.
I can’t see where I’m going.
Neither store windows nor people.
Not even sidewalks.
I trip. I bump.
Woman’s side is Jocasta.
She herself is Janus-like.
Like all women are Janus like
desiring-being, speaking-being and reproductive-being.
Her round, pale face seemed to dissolve into two faces, a dozen, more.
A transition is needed.
Narcissus off duty
Powerless on the outside, impossible on the inside
Being as ill-being. The horror within.