Saturday, November 10, 2012

Henri Michaux - Plume had a sore finger


Plume's finger felt a bit sore.
"Maybe you should see a doctor," said his wife. "Often it's just a
matter of some lotion....
Plume took her advice.
"Take off one finger," said the surgeon, "and everything's perfect. With anesthesia, the whole tiling takes six minutes at the most.And, since you're a rich man, you really don't need so many fingers. I'll be delighted to do the operation, and then I'll show you several sorts of artificial fingers, some of them truly exquisite. Oh, maybe a little expensive. But of course expense isn't really an issue here, not when we want to provide you with the very best."
Plume, looking wistfully at the guilty finger, humbly objected:
"Doctor, it's the index finger, you know? A very useful finger. As a matter of fact, I was just about to write to my mother. I use my index to write. My mother would be anxious if I put off writing her any longer. I'll come back in a couple of days. She's a very sensitive lady, easily shaken."
"It's nothing," the surgeon told him. "Here's some paper, some good white paper, without any heading at all. Just send her a few reassuring words and she'll be happy as ever. Meanwhile, I'll be calling the clinic to make sure everything's ready: all they'll need to do is sterilize some instruments and pull them out. Back in a moment...."
The surgeon was back almost  as soon as he'd left, saying, "Everything's set. They're waiting for us."
"Excuse me, Doctor," said Plume, "but you can see how my hand is trembling. It's all too much for me. ..."
"Yes, yes," the surgeon replied, "you're right. It's best not to write your mother at all. Women are so touchy, and mothers most of all. They're always picky about what their sons are up to. They make mountains out of molehills. You and I, we're never more than their little darlings. Here's your cane and here's your hat. There's a car waiting for us...."
Soon it's the operating room.
"Doctor, listen!   I mean, really...."
"Quit worrying!" the doctor exclaimed.  "You have so many scruples! We can write this letter together, if that's what you want. I'll think about it while I'm doing the operation."
Fixing his mask to his face, he put Plume to sleep.
"You might've asked me for my opinion," Plume's wife said to her husband. "Don't think that a lost finger is something you can easily find again. A man with stumps? I'm not too happy with the idea. Once that finger's chopped, don't count on me anymore. I mean, cripples turn evil; they get sadistic, and I wasn't raised to live with sadists. I guess you thought I'd be a saint, and see you through the whole thing. Well, you were wrong, and you should have thought about it all beforehand...."
"Listen," said Plume. "Don't make a big fuss over the future. I've still got nine fingers, and your character may change, after all."

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Year 0.


Not far away from here, moves up and down, and from side to side a primordial larva. A spirit, an immature metamorphosis, bends through the branches to reach the sun on the top of the absolute infinity, the top of the trunk, the top of every branch. So far, so boundless.
The tree (any tree) is meant to be a closed boundlessness. Age counts nothing; the year zero left no days, no hours, no sunset, no dawn; no mysteries. Absolute powerlessness. Year zero brought a larva. A dissolution of ether, lassitude, depths and light. And secretion, to get attached wherever wanted. Even trees secrete.
The year zero and our larva are unresponsive to the hierarchy of the tree. With a gentle move of the eyelids, the larva closes his eye and reaches one of the tops. Then it falls again to unify his rebirths by weakening number and years, over and over again. The zero, the absolute infinity to which everything falls. And falls again and becomes heavier. Legs open wide and ether lifts finger to ejaculate towards ∞ + ε. It serves to integrate them. To moisten the bluish scratches. Towards restlessness. Upon a dreary allegory of zero. Of this precise moment when the larva wanders gloomier.
Still unexposed to generations, it extends faithfulness to the limit (or the unlimit) of no encouragement of doubts. Zero is bliss. Zero grows with a stick, and feeds beds. It is not bliss. It is curious. It is not zero anymore. Enough!
There was a time when he though he had seen a Second Death of a Father. And a Mother implying that she was the obly one to be blamed for believing others. "Once they brough him and told me, Take him, no hope for the dead, and I, like a fool, left him there to die, when I myself could confirm it. But in fact he wasn't dead yet when they brought him to me," - the Mother said. "I", - she continued, sad and about to cry, angry at the same time, "I myself should have seen him. But I left him there, in his room, alone. He was dying meanwhile." "But how is it possible that he's dead now, again, a second death?" - the Daughter asked, "Is it possible that he had been with us all this period? I have been seeing so many coffins ultimately, mother, leaving this workhouse. Man in black suit, slim and wearing high-hats, placing the coffins everywhere upon our land. They buried someone next to the door entrance. It was the Father, right?" "I don't know," - she told her, "Maybe we ourselves are a prolonged dream of some gravedigger." So she spoke to fade then within a memory of a Daughter and a larva. Repetitious revolution of generations followed his fallings. An obstinate sisyphus and a descending, but dreaming icarus of visionary vertigoes of a wounded tree and unshattered indifference. Recording his own epitaphs everywhere. Oh, how he fell! To divide and conquer all over again; to consume the absurdity of the tree and the obscenities of a secluded self-homo-eroticism. Without an eve to face the sun and self-abuse. Who will save the sane?

Comte de Lautréamont - Chants of Maldoror, Fifth Book, Fifth Song

Oh incomprehensible pederasts, I shall not heap insults upon your great degradation; i shall not be the one to pour scorn on your infundibuliform anus.  It is enough that the shameful and almost incurable maladies which besiege you should bring with them their unfailing punishments.  Legislators of stupid institutions, founders of a narrow morality, depart from me, for I am an impartial soul.  And you, young adolescents, or rather young girls, explain to me how and why (but keep a safe distance, for I, too, am unable to control my passions), vengeance has so sprouted in your hearts that you could leave such a crown of sores on the flanks of mankind.  You make it blush at its sons by your conduct (which I venerate!); your prostitution which offers itself to the first comer, taxes the logic of the deepest thinkers, while your extreme sensibility crowns the stupefaction of woman herself.  Are you of a more or less earthly nature than your fellow-beings?  Do you possess a sixth sense which we lack?  Do not lie, and say what you think.  This is not a question I am putting to you; for since as an observer I have been frequenting the sublimity of your intelligence, I know how matters stand.  Blessed be you by my left hand and sanctified by my right hand, angels protected by my universal love.  I kiss your faces, I kiss your breasts, I kiss, with my smooth lips, the different parts of your harmonious and perfumed bodies.  Why did you not tell me immediately what you were, crystallizations of superior moral beauty?  I had to guess for myself the innumerable treasures of tenderness and chastity hidden by the beatings of your oppressed hearts.  Breasts bedecked with rose-garlands and vetiver.  I had to open your legs to know you, I had to place my mouth over the insignia of your shame.  But (I must stress this), do not forget to wash the skin of your lower parts with hot water every day for, if you do not, venereal chancres will infallibly grow on the commissures of my unsatisfied lips.  Oh! if, instead of being a hell, the universe had only been an immense celestial anus, look at the motion I am making with my loins: yes, I would have thrust my verge into its bleeding sphincter, shattering, with my jerking movements, the very walls of its pelvis!  Misery would not then have blown into my blinded eyes from entire dunes of moving sand; I should have discovered the subterranean place where truth lies sleeping and the rivers of my viscous sperm would thus have found an ocean into which they could gush.  But why do I find myself regretting an imaginary state of affairs which will never bear the stamp of final accomplishment?  Let us not trouble to construct fleeting hypotheses.  Meanwhile, let him who burns with ardour to share my bed come and find me; but I make one condition for my hospitality: he must not be more than fifteen years old.  Let him not, on his part, think that I am thirty; what difference does that make?  Age does not lessen the intensity of emotions, far from it; and though my hair has become white as snow, it is not from age: on the contrary, it is for the reason you know.  I do not like woman!  nor even hermaphrodites!  I need beings who are the same as me, on whose brows human nobility is graven in more distinct, ineffaceable characters.  Are you sure that those whose hair is long are of the same nature as I?  I do not believe so, and I will abandon my opinion.  Bitter saliva is flowing from my mouth, I do not know why.  Who will suck it for me, that I may be rid of it?  It is rising...it is still rising!  I have noticed that when I suck blood from the throats of those who sleep beside me (the supposition that I am a vampire is false, since that is the name given to the dead who rise from their graves; whereas I am living), I throw up part of it on the following day: this is the explanation of the vile saliva.  What do you expect me to do, now that my organs, weakened by vice, refuse to accomplish the functions of digestion?  But do not reveal these confidences to anyone.  It is not for my own sake that I am telling you this; it is for yourself and the others, that the influence of the secret I have imparted should keep within the bounds of duty and virtue those who, magnetized by the electricity of the unknown, would be tempted to imitate me.  Be so good as to look at my mouth (for the moment I have no time to use a longer formula of politeness); at first sight it strikes you by its appearance; there is no need to bring the snake into your comparison; it is because I am contracting the tissue as far as it will possibly go, to give the impression that I am cold of temperament.  But you really know that the diametrical opposite is true.  If only I could see the face of him who is reading me through these seraphic pages.  If he has not passed puberty, let him approach.  Hold me tight against you, and do not be afraid of hurting me; let us contract our muscles.  More.  I feel it is futile to continue.  The opacity of this piece of paper, remarkable in more ways than one, is a most considerable obstacle to our complete union.  I have always had a perverse fancy for schoolboys and the emaciated children of the factories.  My words are not the recollections of a dream, and I would have too many memories to disentangle if I were obliged to describe all those events which by their evidence could corroborate the veracity of my woeful statement.  Human justice has not yet caught me in the act, despite the expertise of its policemen.  I even murdered (not long ago!) a pederast who was not responding adequately to my passion; I threw his body down a disused well, and there is no decisive evidence against me.  Why are you quivering with fear, young adolescent reading me?  Do you think I want to do the same thing to you?  You are being extremely unjust...You are right: do not trust me, especially if you are handsome.  My sexual parts perpetually offer the lugubrious spectacle of turgescence; no one can claim (and how many have approached!) that he has ever seen them in the normal flaccid state, not even the shoeblack who stabbed me there in a moment of ecstasy!  The ungrateful wretch!  I change my clothes twice a week; cleanliness, however, is not the principal motive for my resolution.  If I did not act thus, the members of mankind would disappear after a few days, in prolonged struggles.  In fact, whatever country I am in, they continually harass me with their presence, and come and lick the surface of my feet.  But what power can my drops of sperm possess, that they attract everything which breathes through olfactory nerves to them!  They come from the banks of the Amazon, they cross the valleys watered by the Ganges, they abandon the polar lichen on long journeys in search of me, they ask the unmoving cities whether they have glimpsed, passing along their ramparts, him whose sacred sperm sweetens the mountains, the lakes, the heaths, the promontories, the immensity of the seas!  Despair at not being able to find me (I secretly hide in the most inaccessible places to inflame their ardour) drives them to the most deplorable acts.  They stand, three hundred thousand on each side, and the roaring of the cannons serves as a prelude to the battle.  Each flank moves at the same time, like a single warrior.  Squares are formed and then immediately fall, never to rise again.  The terrified horses flee in all directions.  Cannonballs plough up the ground like implacable meteors.  The scene of the battle is now but a field of carnage, when night reveals its presence and the silent moon appears through a break in the clouds.  Pointing out a space of several leagues strewn with corpses, the vaporous crescent of that star orders me to consider for a moment, as the subject of meditative reflections, the fatal consequences which the inexplicable enchanted talisman that Providence granted me, leaves in its wake.  Unfortunately it will take many more centuries before the human race completely perishes as a result of my perfidious snare.  Thus it is that a clever but by no means bombastic mind uses, to achieve its ends, the very means which would at first appear to present an insuperable obstacle to their achievement.  My intelligence always soars towards this imposing question, and you yourself are witness that it is no longer possible for me to remain within the bounds of the modest subject which I had planned to deal with at the outset.  A final word...it was a winter night.  While the cold wind whistled through the firs, the Creator opened his doors in the darkness and showed a pederast in.

Samuel Beckett - Malone Dies (fragment)


This first phase, that of the bed, was characterized by the evolution of the relationship between Macmann and his keeper. There sprang up gradually between them a kind of intimacy which, at a given moment, led them to lie together and copulate as best they could. For given their age and scant experience of carnal love, it was only natural they should not succeed, at the first shot, in giving each other the impression they were made for each other. The spectacle was then offered of Macmanntrying to bundle his sex into his partner's like a pillow into a pillow-slip, folding it in two and stuffing in it with his fingers. But far from losing heart they warmed to their work. And though both were completely impotent they finally succeeded, summoning to their aid all the resources of the skin, the mucus and the imagination, in striking from their dry and feeble clips a kind of sombre gratification. So that Moll exclaimed, being (at that stage) the more expansive of the two, Oh would we had but met sixty years ago! But on the long road to this what flatterings, alarms and bashful fumblings, of which only this, that they gave Macmann some insight into the meaning of the expression, Two is  company. He then made unquestionable progress in the use of the spoken word and learnt in a short time to let fall, at the right time, the yesses, noes, mores and enoughs that keep love alive. It was also the occasion of his penetrating into the  enchanted world  of  reading,  thanks to  the  inflammatory letters  which Moll brought and put into his hands. And the memories of school are so tenacious, for those who have been there, that he was soon able to dispense with the explanations of his correspondent and understand all unaided, holding the sheet of paper as far from his eyes as his arms permitted. While he read Moll held  a little aloof, with downcast eyes, saying to herself, Now he's at the part where, and a little later, Now he's at the part where, and so remained until the rustle of the sheet going back into the envelope announced that he had finished. Then she turned eagerly towards him, in time to see him raise the letter to his lips or press it against his heart, another reminiscence of the fourth form. Then he gave it back to her and she put it under his pillow with the others there already, arranged in chronological order and tied together by a favor. These letters did not much vary in form and tenor, which greatly facilitated matters for Macmann. Example. Sweetheart, Not one day goes by that I do not give thanks to God, on my bended knees, for having found you, before I die. For we shall soon die, you and I,  that is  obvious. That it may be at the same moment exactly is all I ask. In any case I have the key of the medicine cupboard. But let us profit first by this superb sundown, after the long day of storm. Are you not of this opinion Sweetheart! Ah would we had met but seventy years ago! No, all is for the best, we shall not have time to grow to loathe each other, to see our youth slip by, to recall with nausea the ancient rapture, to seek in the company of third parties, you on the one hand, I on the other, that which together we can no longer compass, in a word to get to know each other. One must look things in the face, must one not, sweet pet? When you hold me in your arms, and I you in mine, it naturally does not amount to much, compared to the transports of youth, and even middle age. But all is  relative, let us bear that in mind, stags and hinds have their needs and we have ours. It  is  even astonishing that you manage so well,  I can hardly get over it, what a chaste and sober life you must have led. I too, you must have noticed it. Consider moreover that the flesh is not the end-all and the be-all, especially at our age, and name me the lovers who can do with their eyes what we can do with ours, which will soon have seen all there is for them to see and have often great difficulty  in remaining open, and with their tenderness, without the help of passion, what by this means alone we realize daily, when separated by our respective obligations. Consider furthermore, since there is  nothing more for us to hide, that I was never beautiful or well-proportioned, but ugly and even misshapen, to judge by the testimonies I have received. Papa notably used to say that people would run a mile from me, I  have not forgotten the expression. And you, sweet, even when you were of an age to quicken the pulse of beauty did you exhibit the other requisites? I  doubt it. But with the passing of the  years we have become  scarcely less hideous than even our best favored contemporaries and you, in particular, have kept your hair. And thanks to our having never served, never understood, we are not without freshness and innocence, it seems to me. Moral, for us at last it is the season of love, let us make the most of it,  there are pears that only ripen in December. Do not fret about our methods, leave all  that to me, and I  warrant you we'll surprise each other yet. With regard to tetty-beshy I must beg to differ, it is well worth persevering with, in my opinion. Follow my instructions, you'll come back for more. For shame, you dirty old man! It's  all  these bones that makes it awkward, that I grant you. Well, we must just accept ourselves as we are. And above all not fret, these are trifles. Let us think of the hours when, spent, we lie twined together in the dark, our hearts laboring as one, and listen to the wind saying what it is to be abroad, at night, in winter, and what it  is to have been what we have been, and sink together, in an unhappiness that has no name. That is how we must look at things. So courage, my sweet old hairy Mac, and oyster kisses just where you think from your  own Sucky Moll. P.S. I enquired about the oysters I have hopes. Such was the rather rambling style  of  the declarations which Moll,  despairing no doubt of giving vent to her feelings by the normal channels, addressed three or four times a week to Macmann, who never answered, I mean in writing, but manifested by every other means in his power how pleased he was to  receive them. But towards the close of this idyll, that is to say when it  was too late, he began to compose brief rimes of curious structure, to offer to his mistress for he felt she was drifting away from him. Example

                     Hairy Mac and Sucky Molly
                     In the ending days and nights                  
                     Of unending melancholy                    
                     Love it is at last unites.


Other example.                    

                      To the lifelong promised land                    
                      Of the nearest cemetery                    
                      With his Sucky hand in hand                    
                      Love it is at last leads Hairy.


He had time to compose ten or twelve more or  less  in this vein, all  remarkable for their exaltation of love regarded as a kind of lethal glue, a conception frequently to be met with in mystic texts. And it is extraordinary that Macmann should have succeeded, in  so short a time and after  such inauspicious beginnings, in elevating himself to a view of this altitude. And one can only speculate on what he might have achieved if he had become acquainted with true sexuality at a less advanced age.

I am lost. Not a word.

Inauspicious beginnings indeed, during  which  his feeling for Moll was frankly one of repugnance. Her lips in particular repelled him, those selfsame lips, or so little changed as to make no matter, that some months later he was to suck with grunts of pleasure, so that at the very sight of them he not only closed his eyes, but covered them with his hands for greater safety. She it was therefore who at this period exerted herself in tireless ardours, which may serve to  explain why she seemed to weaken in the end and stand in her turn in need of stimulation. Unless it was simply a question of health. Which does not exclude a third hypothesis, namely  that Moll,  having  finally decided that she had been mistaken in Macmann and that he was not the man she had taken him for, sought a means of putting an end to their intercourse, but gently, in order not to give him a shock. Unfortunately our concern here is not with Moll, who after  all  is  only a female, but with Macmann, and not with the close of their relations, but rather with the beginning. Of the brief period of plenitude between these two extremes, when between the warming up of the one party and the cooling down of the other there was established a fleeting equality of temperature, no further mention will be made. For if it is indispensable to have in order not to have had and in order to have no longer there is  no obligation to expatiate upon it. But let us rather let events speak for themselves, that is  more or less the right tone. Example. One day, just as Macmann was getting used to being loved, though without as yet responding as he was subsequently to  do, he thrust Moll's face away from his on the pretext of examining her ear-rings. But as she made to return to the charge he checked her again with the first words that came into his head, namely, Why two Christs?, implying that in his opinion one was more than sufficient. To which she made the absurd reply, Why two ears?  But she obtained his forgiveness a moment later, saying, with a smile (she smiled at the least thing), Besides they are the thieves, Christ is  in my mouth. Then parting her jaws and pulling down her blobber-lip she discovered, breaking with its  solitary fang the monotomy of the gums, a long yellow canine bared to the roots and carved, with the drill probably, to represent the  celebrated sacrifice. With the forefinger of her free hand she fingered it.  It's loose, she said, one of these fine mornings I'll wake up and find I've swallowed it,  perhaps I  should have it  out.  She let  go her lip, which sprang back into place with a smack. This incident made a strong impression on Macmann and Moll rose with a bound in his affections. And in the pleasure he was later to enjoy, when he put his tongue in her mouth and let it wander over her gums, this rotten crucifix had assuredly its part. But from these harmless aids what love is free? Sometimes it  is  an object, a garter I  believe or a sweat-absorber for the armpit. And sometimes it is the simple image of a third party. A few words in conclusion on the decline of this liaison. No, I can't.

 Weary with my weariness, white last moon, sole regret, not even. To be dead, before her, on her, with her, and turn, dead on dead, about poor mankind, and never have to die any more, from among the living. Not even, not even that. My moon was here below, far below, the little  I was able to desire. And one day, soon, soon, one earthlit night, beneath the earth, a dying being will say, like me, in the earthlight, Not even, not even that, and die, without having been able to find a regret.

 Moll. I'm going to kill her. She continued to look after Macmann, but she was no longer the same. When she had finished cleaning up she sat down on a chair in the middle of the room, and remained without stirring. If he called her she went and perched on the edge of the bed and even submitted to be titillated. But it  was obvious her thoughts were elsewhere and her only wish to return to her chair and resume the now familiar gesture of massaging her stomach, slowly, weighing on it with her two hands. She was also beginning to smell. She had never smelt sweet, but between not smelling sweet and giving off the smell she was giving off now there is a gulf. She was also subject to fits of vomiting. Turning away, so that her lover should only see her convulsive back, she vomited at length on the floor. And these dejections remained sometimes for hours where they fell, until  such time as  she had the strength to go and fetch what was needed to clean up the mess. Half a century younger she might have been taken for pregnant. At the same time her hair began to fall out in abundance and she confessed to Macmann that she did not dare comb it any more, for fear of making it fall out even faster. He said to himself with satisfaction, She tells me everything. But these were small things compared to the change in her complexion, now rapidly turning from yellow to saffron. The sight of her so diminished did not damp Macmann's desire to take her, all stinking, yellow, bald and vomiting, in his arms. And he would certainly have done so had she not been opposed to  it. One can understand him (her too). For when one has within reach the one and only love requited of a life so monstrously prolonged, it is natural one should wish to profit by it, before it  is too late, and refuse to be deterred by feelings of squeamishness excusable  in  the  faint-hearted, but which true love disdains. And though all pointed to Moll's being out of sorts, Macmann could not help interpreting her attitude as a falling off  of her affection for him. And perhaps indeed there was something of that too. At all  events the more she declined the more Macmann longed to crush her to his breast, which is  at least sufficiently curious and unusual to deserve of mention. And when she turned and looked at him  (and from time to time she did so still), with eyes in which he fancied he could read boundless regret and love,  then a kind of frenzy seized upon him and he began to  belabor with his  fists  his chest, his head and even the mattress, writhing and crying out, in the hope perhaps she would take pity on him and come and comfort him and dry his  tears,  as  on the  day when he had demanded his hat. No, it was not that, it was without malice he cried, writhed and beat his breast, for she made no attempt to stop him and even left the room if it went on too long for her liking. Then, all alone and unobserved, he continued to behave as if beside himself, which is proof positive, is it  not, that he was disinterested, unless of course he suspected her of having stopped outside the  door to  listen.  And when he grew calm again at last he mourned the long immunity he had lost,  from shelter, charity and human tenderness. And he even carried his inconsequence to the length of wondering what right anyone had to take care of him. In a word most evil days for Macmann. For Moll too probably, naturally, admittedly. It  was at  this time she lost her tooth. It fell unaided from the socket, happily in the daytime, so that she was able to recover it  and put it away in a safe place. Macmann said to himself, when she told him, There was a time she would have made me a present of it, or at least shown it to me. But a little later he said, firstly, To have told me, when she need not have, is a mark of confidence and affection,  and secondly, But I  would have known in  any case, when she opened her mouth to speak or smile, and finally, But she does not speak or smile any more. One morning early a man whom he had never seen came and told him that Moll was dead. There's one out of the way at least.  My name is Lemuel, he said, though my parents were probably Aryan, and it is in my charge you are from now on. Here is your porridge. Eat while it is boiling.

Cesare Pavese - Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi


Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi-
questa morte che ci accompagna
dal mattino alla sera, insonne,
sorda, come un vecchio rimorso
o un vizio assurdo. I tuoi occhi
saranno una vana parola,
un grido taciuto, un silenzio.
Così li vedi ogni mattina
quando su te sola ti pieghi
nello specchio. O cara speranza,
quel giorno sapremo anche noi
che sei la vita e sei il nulla

Per tutti la morte ha uno sguardo.
Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi.
Sarà come smettere un vizio,
come vedere nello specchio
riemergere un viso morto,
come ascoltare un labbro chiuso.
Scenderemo nel gorgo muti.

Samuel Beckett - Whoroscope


What's that?
An egg?
By the brothers Boot it stinks fresh.
Give it to Gillot.

Galileo how are you
and his consecutive thirds!
The vile old Copernican lead-swinging son of a
            sutler!
We're moving he said we're off--Porca
            Madonna!
the way a boatswain would be, or a sack-of-
            potatoey charging Pretender.
That's not moving, that's moving.

What's that?
A little green fry or a mushroomy one?
Two lashed ovaries with prostisciutto?
How long did she womb it, the feathery one?
Three days and four nights?
Give it to Gillot.

Faulhaber, Beeckman and Peter the Red,
come now in the cloudy avalanche or Gassendi's
            sun-red crystally cloud
and I'll pebble you all your hen-and-a-half ones
or I'll pebble a lens under the quilt in the midst
            of day.

To think he was my own brother, Peter the
            Bruiser,
and not a syllogism out of him
no more than if Pa were still in it.
Hey! pass over those coppers,
sweet milled sweat of my burning liver!
Them were the days I sat in the hot-cupboard
            throwing Jesuits out of the skylight.

Who's that? Hals?
Let him wait.

My squinty doaty!
I hid and you sook.
And Francine my precious fruit of a house-and-
            parlour foetus!
What an exfoliation!
Her little grey flayed epidermis and scarlet
            tonsils!
My one child
scourged by a fever to stagnant murky blood--
blood!
Oh Harvey beloved
how shall the red and white, the many in the
            few,
(dear boodswirling Harvey)
eddy through that crack beater?
And the fourth Henry came to the crypt of the
            arrow.

What's that?
How long?
Sit on it.

A wind of evil flung my despair of ease
against the sharp spires of the one
lady:
not one or twice but…
(Kip of Christ hatch it!)
in the one sun's drowning
(Jesuitasters please copy).
So on with the silk hose over the knitted, and
            the morbid leather--
what am I saying! the gentle canvas--
and away to Ancona on the bright Adriatic,
and farewell for a space to the yellow key of
            the Rosicrucians.
They don't know what the master of them that
            do did,
that the nose is touched by the kiss of all foul
            and sweet air,
and the drums, and the throne of the faecal
            inlet,
and the eyes by its zig-zags.

So we drink Him and eat Him
and the watery Beaune and the stale cubes of
            Hovis
because He can jig
as near or as far from His Jigging Self
and as sad or lively as the chalice or the tray asks.
How's that, Antonio?

In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up
            that egg.
Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?

Anna Maria!
She reads Moses and says her love is crucified.
Leider! Leider! she bloomed and withered,
a pale abusive parakeet in a mainstreet window.

No I believe every word of it I assure you.
Fallor, ergo sum!
The coy old froleur!
He tolle'd and legge'd
and he buttoned on his redemptorist waistcoat.
No matter, let it pass.
I'm a bold boy I know
so I'm not my son
(even if I were a concierge)
nor Joachim my father's
but the chip of a perfect block that's neither old
            nor new,
the lonely petal of a great high bright rose.

Are you ripe at last,
my slim pale double-breasted turd?
How rich she smells,
this abortion of a fledgling!
I will eat it with a fish fork.
White and yolk and feathers.
Then I will rise and move moving
toward Rahab of the snows,
the murdering matinal pope-confessed amazon,
Christina the ripper.
Oh Weulles spare the blood of a Frank
who has climbed the bitter steps,
(Rene' du Perron….!)
and grant me my second
starless inscrutable hour

Gigi Zanazzo - U tempu chì Berta filava


L'affare ùn hè d'avà: si passava in tempi di u imperatore Nirone. Nirone a sapete, era propiu un assassinu. Robba da chjodi viramente è ognunu ne avia u svelu. S'elle cullavanu in celu e ghjasteme, sarìa sciuppatu subitu cum'è una ballotta, sarìa!Or c'era una vichjarella à Roma chì stava sempre dicendu: «Ch'ellu campi Nirone! Oh iè, ch'ellu campi Nirone!». Nirone vene à sapè u fattu. «Comu sarà ch'ella mi tene cusì caru quessa? Forse mi ne invechju è mi mettu à u benfà senza avvedemine?… A vogliu sente...».È piglia è manda à chjamà a vichjarella. A li ghjunghjenu intravata in quattru.
- Allora, tù saristi quella chì mi tene cusì caru?
- Eh… eh…
- Comu «hè». Mi teni o ùn mi teni?
- Ah, ah… tenevi caru po nò! Diu ne guardi!…
- Aiò, aiò! Ma chì dici sempre«Ch'ellu campi Nirone, ch'ellu campi Nirone»?
- A vi vogliu dì, o Nirò: eiu a sapete sò vechja assai, aghju cunnisciutu à vostru missiavu. Era un ammostru! Di peghju si cridia ch'ellu ùn ne posca mai più nasce… Dopu hè vinutu vostru babbu : aanh! Ci hà fattu vede e mammetinte chì appettu à ellu, innanzu eranu fiori! Avà ci sete voi: peghju è ripeghju!!! Allora eiu, chì vulete, pregu chì voi ci stìate, parchì quellu chì hà da vene dopu à voi, Diu la sà…
Nirone si campava da a risa :
- Iène? Allora tù insulti à mè è poi insulti à babbu, è vai ancu à circà à Missiavu! L'ai da pacà! Vogliu chì tù veca! Sè bona pè a filera?
- Ah, quessa po sì…
- Ebbè: hai da filà trè ghjorni è trè notte… una corda. È ch'ella sia bella neh? È ch'ella ùn istrappi!
È piglianu i servi, inguantanu à Berta è a mettenu davanti à una mansa di lana, una rocca, è tira avanti…Ella, a disgraziata, si vidia in traccia di filà a corda pè appiccalla… Allora a s'allungava, circava d'andà pianu pianu, si pruvava à fà minutu minutu parchi a corda strappissi, ma tandu a corda vinia più longa… Or bella via!Trè ghjorni è trè notte Berta filò. I servi di Nirone eranu culà è "Tso Tso!" Mancu a lascionu rifiatà una meza siconda.À u capu à i trè ghjorni, t'affacca Nirone :
- Hè fatta a me corda?
- Ah - dice a vechja -, hè fatta… È tardavillava da capu à pedi chì si vidia morta.
- Eh bè - disse Nirone -, per paca d'avè dettu u to parè invece di pruvà d'allusingammi cum'elli facenu tanti, ti vogliu fà ricca; hai da andà in carrughju cù issa corda : quant'ellu ci sarà palazzi ch'ella pò avvinghje, saranu i toi!!
- Auuuh! Dice a vechja, lasciatemi filà torna una meza ghjurnata!
- Ahù! HÈ FINITU U TEMPU CHI BERTA FILAVA!
Firmò u so pruverbiu.

T. S. Elliot - Hysteria


As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved
in her laughter and being part of it, until her
teeth were only accidental stars with a talent
for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps,
inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally
in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by
the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter
with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading
a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty
green iron table, saying: "If the lady and
gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden,
if the lady and gentleman wish to take their
tea in the garden ..." I decided that if the
shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of
the fragments of the afternoon might be collected,
and I concentrated my attention with careful
subtlety to this end.