Emballe: en ballet. Ce matin mon corps voulait parler -ni avec, ni a- tu me revulse avec ton corps triangle: il voulait parler pour, car mes dents frissonnent a ton approche. C’est pas le meme de faire l’amour tout seul. Mais j’en ai besoin. Mais je le prefere. Ce matin. Cet apres-midi. Ce soir. Cette nuit. J’y serai: ca me fait gueler de jalousie. J’ai souvent peur que tu me trouves, te trompant avec la femme que tu connais pas. Tu ne frequents que la fille. Comment ca se fait que tu n’en sais rien? On a fabrique tellement d’amour trop adult, trop foid.
I break the spine of the Romaine lettuce: terror on the gypsies!
Someone mentioned trilogies:
We trek the desert and I am the keeper of time. The tick the tock the clock’s outcry. For once it is not the sargeant of my rhythm but the abstraction of it. Body, mind, spirit, the trilogy of chaos in a footstep as veins constrict. For once it is not the trees that call, not Joshua in them but the earthen boulders in orgy on the landscape. They demonstrate the acrobatics we mimick in joining them, practicing perfect stillness and immobility, while undulating in nausea. They are as I should, but their crevasses are inviting in blue shade and gravel echoes and I descend hallways to caves where I perch because I am watchful of the horizon, seeking of the sun. The sun brings too many scents and sweat to shrivel in a cave I think and then jump and am brought into the burn, the fall of ash, and the white heat.
What was so wrong with/in me that I needed to be entirely deconstructed all at once? Incinerated human.
*huge preconception memory just now: dreamt this situation a while ago, sharing old journalings with you all on the net. i think i remembered that i deleted it all and didn’t post anything, so i’m going to do the opposite this time and see what happens. POST.*
