Cher Chérubin,
Stroke your eyes with this gentle missive, for it is a congratulatory song of self-indulgence written on an eve stiff with the lonely extravagance of self-pity…
O Romantic spirit!
O Decadent brother!
O Empire state of spume and sputum! —
your desire has not yet left my mouth
for when my ear touched the plastic hole
of your voice I was transported to an isle of
reverberating longing where one must
wield the stick as if the zeitgeist of indulgence were king
of all one-eyed shafts.
Forgive me my debt of wanting to molest my mind
with your fingers–I
have nothing left to live
for yet continue to live upon the memory of your
dream in my ear…
I am diseased and do not know the Macarena. I would ask you to pop the boil quietly bulging into the shadow of my elongated and lonely body but it would be my head you would need to squeeze. I am what I am: contractually obliged to be ghastly—given my Heidegger-loving being is but a polyp the size of a lifetime of fisted torment and soft flesh structurally tender stitched to the curved lining of my absurd mental physique. I will taste the current jelly you sent me along with the carrot clenched tightly in my fist once shamefully housed in the recesses of my rectum. I would stop by and ask you to come out to play today, but my mother’s memory has lost the wit of my childhood-as-son, so I think I will stay in today to ogle at scrapbooks pictorially relating the story of family illness. Alas, I bring to you my thick lips puffy with fungal glee and leave you to your impeccably stolid and meretricious bourgeois being-in-itself.
Perpetually yours,
Emile Shit
PS, I am palimpsestuous loving in need as I do to write over myself in traces soon to be retraced, using flesh and ink. How I love to loath the scribbling of my servile self in tones to neutral to be despised or loved over and over again against across and under darker tones spilling out over into and about the whirling flavor of self deceit—I am all that and many things more carved of the bile of my joy. Let’s speak of the Worm Within. Up to this seething moment an analysis of my life will yield a visionary tableau of depressed concentration—nay, a concoction of saddle sores, insect feces, and the lingering concrete breath of the insipid Dark Angel. I am a seething infusion of microbial angst, bionic to measures uncharted.
I add for your dim edification the following confession:
Heidegger licked my ear with these words moments before he lapsed into the moonlit ecstasy of self absorption: “Perhaps I am only a ghost of mindless mediocrity, a lost soul delivering to the few a workable philosophy of Nothing—Nothing is our breath, though, and even upon my stained bed sheets I sit positing in lotus posture the nothing that precedes everything, and thus I serve as the chambermaid of my own inglorious twiddling.”
Commentary (for your hollow energies)
I remember once having grinned at the shadow of Fantômas in the mirror of his dream. It was a luscious pictorial and sensorial instant. His shadow smelt of dew as it attracted to its soft edges all manner of dust and silt of Want. I will never forget how his grin echoed gloom between the deep clefts of my cognitive discord. It sent out a sound trimmed with well-mannered ingratitude. “A nobleman,” I said to myself. What genre of man is he that loves the timbre of slightly dancing cadences, the exhumation of woe’s glee, and the memories of dead flatulence swirling about our proctored noses?
My life has been summoned,
EG
Umbriate Press Poetry 