In hopeless devotion to absurd dreams
I ceaselessly spin a thin web of words:
a hurdy-gurdy turns, a sound
ridiculous yet unnerving emerges;
as the wheel rubs against the strings
the skin begins to bleed a little,
are slammed against the wall.
But of course,
nothing breaks that isn’t already broken…
Beauty serenely disdains to destroy me**,
so I destroy myself:
beyond the reach of sedatives or sleep,
I cut once & then cut again
furiously I slash
until my hand
is slick with the wet warm red
& the blade
slips from my grip.
there is a brief moment of peace
& I survey the scene: me
alone in a room
covered in blood:
Laughter is all that is left to turn to
that sound too becomes unnerving,
& all that is solid
melts into squalid self-pity.
what else is there to do?
I don't fucking know, so
– always one for a dramatic gesture,
for the deep allure of hysteria –
I lick away the still warm blood;
a taste of salt,
the trace of assault
in the crazed nature
of what I am doing.
There is an undeniable,
sadomasochistic pleasure to this,
which will soon turn to shame
& eventually fade
into just another memory.
So once again the impossible state:
something both does
& does not exist:
everything & nothing
Draped in the word-web, I begin dancing.
A proposal is made,
a proposal that this "I" is a lie,
a reified grammatical necessity,
a reference to the referent,
no more than words hidden beneath skin & skull;
words that haunt a tormented animal,
trapped within a network of veins
& a cage of flesh
that will crumble to powder one day,
like butterfly wings:
A proposal is made
that this self is a dislocated time-line,
& ultimately boring,
severed from transcendence,
reduced to the facticity of presence
& the unbearable density of being***.
are to be considered at a later date,
but I suspect
that they will be rejected.
the medication isn’t working.
* A Short History of Decay – E. M. Cioran
** First Elegy – Rainer Maria Rilke
*** The Ethics of Ambiguity – Simone de Beauvoir