Showing posts with label grafting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grafting. Show all posts

Friday, October 13, 2023

Dear dodge


Dear Dodge

You like to go around ramming your head into things don't you. You are like a goat. Who is neither playful nor aggressive just very rammy. Has long given up bothering to question it. Look at your eyes with the rectangular smudges for pupils. You have a free pass to insanity.

Re: Death of LaLa, turns out the soul sure it's great but does require electricity to operate. I think the whole school of molecules of carbon whatever carry the spirit intact to another place where it can then be rehydrated integrally have lost their case. And what would be the meaning of having a soul in outer space or without containment in flesh. Is the soul not rhetorically, culturally and environmentally enmeshed with the experiences of a closed-body, one-planet existence? Even after consummating its state of perfection in a graft with the godhead, what then would a soul do what purpose would it serve. The whole concept of purpose would be stupid. Even being itself is rendered ridiculous.

Is that your deal? Are you like already passed over and bored as shit? 

In a higher ring of heaven perhaps you could hinge in with the total mind, so that your brain would be the entire universe, and that would be soothing or one would hope. Or soothing is a body-contained experience only and a free mind would be happy just thinking and shutting off its corporal support functions, double down on sensory and recreative voyeurism. 

Or not because the senses? Also a contained-in-body reality. Curiosity as well undoubtedly. 

The only other option would be at the very highest level, being and knowing everything. Which could happen without a corpus but sounds challenging and burdensome. And of course, why?

In this moment and place, my love is yours.

Donna

Sunday, March 26, 2023

the hole i have to eat through

ya they say never hand over a knife to the patient

do they say that and no i don't believe that happened

it happened and it's my fault because i thought we were both lucid


it's a personal place a central place

i know this there is symbolic content i feel all that i knew as soon as

as soon as


as soon as i saw you slash so deeply and so far i realized

you realized i slashed

i realized that it would be a symbolic moment and an existential question


not whether or not i'd survive but

right not that but whether or not you could deal with having destroyed

that specialized area


that no one would ever again see the tissue that had connected you to your mother

but now you act like

i'm not acting i'm telling you if i did it you did it it doesn't matter it's still there inside


because it turned out ok right how you mean because it looks like a real navel

no because you are no longer exposed to that reminder of dependency

you could do the same to my mouth so no one could see the hole i have to eat through



Dr. Donna Thong
Mike
Post-op interview [frag.]

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

No Chance Not to Love You

You give me no chance
Not to love you dear
I lose my resistance

Your shift at the grind
is the only time
I have my peace of mind

But then you return
Back in my arms, you're
A victory unearned

CHORUS:

No chance! Not to love you I'm so
Helpless! All that I can do is
Love, love...love, love... [bells]

REPRISE:

No chance! not to love you darling,
No chance! not to love... [repeat]





by Missy
Shiv at First Grafting

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Ghost Ship

I sublet a place up the street from something called the Ebbtide Show Lounge, what looked like it had once been a last-chance suburban strip joint on the highway out, or walking from the stockyard train, a square cinderblock sugarcube with a single window pane, in the front door, where the bouncer could see you and bang the glass if you peeped, and then the beckoning green and yellow tubing of the sign, which really did still make you want to interrupt your motoring, may have culled some from their sleep. The name and the timing effects suggested you may be sucked out to sea in a sweet and brilliant reverse gush of sense. Now it was blight or an ethnic social club, hall of dance depending on if you asked the neighbor homeowners or the occupying tenants.

Neighbor Jazzy, who cared for a spittle-babbling mom in the quarter-million dollar cottage with mattresses in the window frames next door, owned a driven bullring terrier mix called Shab, who was hellbent on raging its way through the slats in the fence between the sideyards. Shira’s baby would be playing only inches away from most of a slathering groaning muzzle jamming through the holes it was gnawing. So Shira told Jazzy to repair those boards or she’d have out the animal truck. She didn’t feel bad at all about her tone, even as a recent college graduate because her daughter, Elyxir, was so much more important than an earnest, grubby single-man’s gut, though she had been trying to spare him til then by not showing stress when he ambushed her talking too much at the curb before she’d even had a chance to bar-lock her steering wheel.

On my second night in Shira’s bungalow, an alarming urgent illexical or trance-tongued screeching began ramping up out of the dark and then more of that along with the sound of Shab growling frenzied you could tell with something fighting in his mouth. It couldn’t have been Elyxir because Shira had taken her along up the coast to get a divorce from the daddy who should have been there running security as he’d promised when he decided to dig a family into the lower chanks. His baseball bat was left behind next the front door on a mop clamp, spanning the length of all the dead bolts and chain guards. The rent I gave her paid for the trip and part of an attorney, but I couldn’t feel good about that hearing the guttural, stinking banshees and their sinuous deafening spasms of death inflicting and stubborn resisting just below the window of the dining room where I’d converted the table for eight into a space-encounters-online central command console.

The next morning there was a raccoon the size of a baby calf rolled over on it’s side like it had eaten too much, but dead, on Jazzy’s porch, where it had been dragged judging from the chitlins drizzle up the steps. Jazzy came out and wanted to talk about it. How Shab had been mortal enemies with the coon for months, since it had started its rutting and slutting and garbage hoarding under the house, and how maybe Shab could finally now relax, and he was indeed lying out, not breathing hard in the hard dirt out front, but with his back to us, really more like sulking. Jazzy said the coon was full of cubs, which explained both her size and ferocity. He added that he had not yet decided what to do with the losing beast or her never-to-be born, which itself begged a bouquet of inquiry.

On the third night, I thought there was an x-mas parade or hollywood eminent domain incursion of dressing wagons, boom dollies, mess trailers, grip cranes and hideously obnoxious assistants’ assistants busy putting a brand name to the thuggy authenticity of the barrio. But then i could hear very clearly, “We have the building surrounded. Come out one at a time with your hands above your heads, or text my cell.” Though it sounded Industry-generic, you could tell the whole neighborhood was reverberating with the decibel level of real police on loudspeakers under helicopters, not studio lighting, even though the drama and oppression reign the same. The lawmen bellowed their side of a negotiation between land lines and social media devices to dedicate a contact with...  the lead go-go? ethnic socialite? on the inside of The Ebb. In about an hour the squads had skulked away, no one having appeared in spotlit surrender at the front door. That’s when I realized of course most any reasonable person would be inclined to take the more discreet exit out back of that place.

The other vestige of Elyxir’s estranged, hot young drinker dad was all the wedding portraits, which most people would keep in a large binder on a shelf, instead hung on every vertical, set into any dioramic dimensional of room after room, lovingly magnified, glassily framed and further adorned with dried natural plants including cat tails and spray-painted reeds and monkey pods, silk florals and bows in a variety of lace polymer and metallic fabric blends. I had to catch myself almost hourly spending too much time positing attributions of cousin, high-school bff, disgruntled gay uncle to the faces repeating across the surfaces in so much tuxedo and gown leitmotif.

I was out back smoking deeply and watering the lichen sprouts one afternoon after the first week of my residency when i discovered a flagship, ghost ship, of the commitment-day wreckage: a trellised arch, nearly faded from view against the back fence in the hoary return of spring, not meant for the adventitious hedgenettle running up its coarsely whitewashed staves, but for wire-boned stems of blossoms: permanent, inorganic and twisted in place to cling for a chance to drip wax petals on altar pilgrims, just as the generous licensing of mistletoe, whose berries’ storied charms drop the first puckered rings that open pools of generations.

Found out someone in the Q-for-Questioning Room of space-encounters-online lived up the street and that he might want to greet real time, real place. Was he renting a service entrance to the swank cliff-stilter on the hill, or was it all his raven's-view nest from which he’d clipped superfluous wings for comfort in a cockpit-like enclosure? Didn’t matter, cuz it wasn’t a date. More all like: “Here have at this, and omg yeah, and oh you too huh?” Not art-- handicraft, but with lips, and water glasses working in, feet on pillow, head hanging from side of bed, rolling over into candle wax. Tensing, resting, repeat. Me: Why are there wine bottles everywhere? Phillipe: I’m a pilot, and those are the complementaries the ladies sneak for me in their security-exempt wheelie packs because they love me when I’m riding shotgun. I go everywhere. It’s exotic, a life with spa homes in every port; I just furnish a room of an elegant pad, say on Mount Everest, Burj Khalifa, anywhere Liz Taylor might have liked to be. I take my friends with me. I know the owners of the Federal Reserve.

I nearly wept at Phillipe’s story of boarding schools and being present for the invention of the NASDAQ, only to be car jacked, head-bricked and dumped on a lawn in the middle of the day behind the health food temple on the way home from a trippy Lanzarote-Vale-Diamond Head run. His subconscious heap was nearly stepped over by a woman who’d just finished praising to her cashier the benefits of multiple bowel movements in an afternoon. They had to reconstruct his cranium, but he'd kept his glamorous job because the most he could remember was how to fly a Jumbo. I asked if we could drink some of the wine, and he said no. Each vintage he’d previously assigned as re-gifting to various diplomats, crazy millionaire Japanese girl coolat designers.

Yet I still recounted and desired to share my own burden of being away from home in a place I’m not known and alas, on a decimal birthday. So would he please accompany me on a jaunty circuit about town, a giddy breeze through the many fabulous establishments he must have known so well. He joked about swinging through the Ebbtide on the way uptown to the absinthe parlors and martini salons and patios with stroller parking and micro-ales. For me the tube-lit strip cube and its blank marquee sent the undertow of imagination that night, though the both of us, having been honest, could have wagered that a back door departure from the Show Lounge would set a dark and stormy sail.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Epistemes, plotz

we were already 14 when we acknowledged openly
the pointlessness of new friendships with strangers.
if you've often had occasion to judge the world to
be a troubling spot, then you are more oft than not
open to off or awkward approaches, epistemes, plotz.

Everything phatic or rhetic that you spew nau
will be logged entry to my journal o' knowledge,
assuming sumthin as heinous as our love
should be cock-copied down and legislated after,
in whut, clown clinics and drag universities.

You may imagine, in erotic fitz, an oubliette
Where the speech act seeps out, posteriatum,
to where ya' half claim paterfilia to the fevered
perconesias and todonoscums of yr offsprings
and their pigs they call husbands.

Sylvia and Tom
"We're thinking-complicit."

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Other Body


Boy, child, lord, what am I?
I ask as the world, not myself.
Sneaky? Guardian? Lovely?
Yor expectations go this far.
Ambling, I may swing my fists.
Will you be there?
Nipple, chest, font.
Ship. Net. Ribs.
Together, we're a knot.
Two are untrustworthy.
I'm on my own now.
I'm seeking another body.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Monkey on a Swag

Nobody Cares to Be My Lover

At least not who matches
My Ideal Opposite Gender.

The pain was waking me up in the night
N' giving me Circles All Day.

They called me La Llorona.
Now I spell relief: a_d-r-e-a-m_d-e-f-e-r-r-e-d.

My Blood Plug: worthless?
...and comfortable, like a pair of Curly-Toe Slippers.

My Grandiose Ideation may sound much
like a Monkey on a Swag, in a smoking jacket, tho

I tell you Pharmlife is always longer than no life because it's
Costlier. Your living cells have Employees and Stockholders.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Inevitable Blanket of Shunning

Inevitable
blanket of shunning

bunched up in my groin,
I wrote these verses

on an envelope
with a broken dick,

and to repair it
will cost me an inch.

The ban on grafts is
a way to maintain

community de-
stabilization.

We must appear to
be daft: writhing in

pain to a thing you
got immunity.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Minx, Manx, Monx


Hi Everyone:

Today I hosed off the front porch in some very skimpy trunks and thongs, nada mas. This was to send a signal to all the wives driving by in SUV's with big sunglasses, sellulars and Slurpees that indeed, there is a fit and permanently sangle hottie in the hood. I would love to tangle with one of those minxes. It would be fun to catfight with their ladies as well. What else will we decadent cement executives do in a worl wair we can't get serious about grafting? I'll read it to you square: give me my rights back now or your husband is mine.

Peg, and I'm Serious

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Peggy's Last Chance



If someone would marry me, I'd come back. I'd take a high cave near Mthyuh with her steam falling across the front holes like curly bangs. Before the grafting my perp and me we'd have a nest of K's right there in the window box and send them out looking for my little ones. The four of us could briefly live as one before taking over each a hill or shivbar. We can pimp each other out as models and spokesmen. We can pose at the oracle for Volca. I would need to come out of my skin and sleep inside his shell at night.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Manual Agent

Sylvia sometimes felt like nothing more than a manual agent. She had no connections with the higher ups at Pharm-Supply. She only had contact with a member, so to speak. She wondered, as she was meeting his most basic needs, if she would ever become a distributor. Tom held onto his stash with remarkable determination, however, so Sylvia strained priuslong and only wanted sleep.

Assphault Mau-ng

All wannabe Makers will undergo an extensive and sometimes admittedly fatal skin graft with their Partner Maker. You must sign over your rights to privacy and to any resulting chiles. Get your head stamp now to avoid more white tape. You will then be hauled up on an assphalt mau-ng an' showed off as a normality. Others, summa whom will be non-eligibles, might try to shout their praises or dissent or even kill. This will prove your luckiness.

Wish I was Sinning Now

if a graft's so important
then we should certainly be
allowed to go through with the
vaows.

and if it's not so import-
ant then all the more reason
for whats the big deal after
all?

Do you think I should be gel-
ded or walk the earth without
any balls? If you were me,
wha..?

tell me celibacy is
a grand gift from our maker;
to spit in His face is too
raw.

The only exception would
be life as a sinner, but
that takes a lot out of you,
ah...

cut me slack on this one; I
just want some fun 'fore I go!
I wish I was sinning right
naow!

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Work, Work

When we were trying to
work it out, we were really
working and trying hard
to work it out. I rem-
ember working so hard
and trying to work it har-
der and harder every day
working and trying it this
way and that way and try-
ing anything to make it
work out, and it worked
out, we worked out, and we
really worked it by working
on it hard and trying on it
really hard until we could-
n't work it out and had to
work it, work it some more
until we just had to sur-
render and say I give up,
I been working on it, wor-
king really hard and you
can go now; I quit and sur-
ender up my work to you.

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Cavern in the Back

"Hoolie's problem always was that he was misunderstood by classmates at the junior high. They'd be like, 'Who's that kid?' and Hoolie'd be the kid who is dancing over in a corner all by himself, or maybe even in the middle of the dance floor, all by himself, but really spazzing out. Like totally oblivious. He comes to a dance, he doesn't realize that it is a social event as much as anything. Sure, you come to move, to interpret in a way, to appreciate the music; but that is generally considered to be only a template, platform, subterfuge even, for grafting rites. Hoolie wasn't about that. He really got into whatever he was doing.

Also I heard a girl tell him once, 'I don't dance with white boys.' So."

Shrugs eccentric cafeteria manager Soupy Witness at St. Chang K. Chang Chank Elementary, former kindergarten of a sullen and embattled go-go nightclub dancer Hoolie Johnson, arraigned this morning at High Shiv for manslaughter in the death of Connie Rehenes, debutante and drifter. Johnson often claims to have been a son of the High Priestess Pegyuh through some sort of goofy-talk "wrinkle-in-time" coincidence. A Wrinkle in Time is the book that will be written in the 1960's especially for children and adolescents by Madeleine L'Engle, renowned mostly for that title. Upon learning that it would be hundreds of years before the technology could be developed that would at once vindicate him on a murder rap and prove his lineage to a priestess, he began diagnosing hidden illnesses, some of which they didn't know they had, in the members of a Canadian camera crew on the scene. We are standing by to determine the outcome of the epsom salt baths and prayer he prescribed for each of them in varying doses before slipping into a shit-faced trance.
Coolie Sinbad, Chankside.