Log in

July 2008   01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31


Posted on 2008.07.13 at 19:23

All entries will be friends-only from now on. However, I'll add you if you want to be added, it's not personal, merely a copyright issue. Leave a comment to be friended.



Posted on 2005.09.15 at 16:19
For Those Unaware, due to circumstances beyond my control or willingness to relate, catvalente is no more, I am over at mirrorspindle now.

Please make a note of it.


Hat, Meet Ring

Posted on 2004.10.13 at 08:27
Anyone feel like beta reading a short story? It's due Friday, and once again I am refraining form posting it all here.

Title: The Psalm of the Second Body

Subject: Shamhat, the prostitute sent to tame Enkidu in The Epic of Gilgamesh.

Length: 3,000 words or so.

Some knowledge of Gilgamesh would be helpful.

Who's game? *smiles toothily*


The Sixth Virtue

Posted on 2004.06.01 at 16:33
Justice is practiced only under compulsion. Bounded on each side by asp and asphodel, I will give each to each what is theirs--or else I will hoard everything to myself, what is due them and what is due me, until I take all their punishments onto my own flesh, and all my ascendant vapours into my lungs, and become a body of deserving, bent until my nose brushes the ground with the gangrenous karma of every flagellation ever passed from leather to breast.

Give me the death you own, I will close it in a litle box and wear it around my neck like a relic of St. John--a shrunken head, black and sere, tufts of embalmed hair wisping into the air. I will travel over Holy Land with a gown of boxes, and what a music I shall make, the clodding of wood against wood, death against maiming against suicides, I will perform all your penances on the hot dirt. I will practice justice, over and over, until my body is a mass of rosary-welts, and purified in the marrow of stars.


Excerpt from Work in Progress

Posted on 2004.05.21 at 16:19
Lancelot--The Hanged ManCollapse )

Posted on 2004.05.16 at 02:13
Writing a novel. Will return when it is finished, to ruin more of these pages with rhymes. Which is to say--see you all in a week or so.


The Four of Swords

Posted on 2004.05.03 at 12:18
Perhaps I was supposed to learn something here. Something about being a hermit in the smoke-branched mountains, something about the anchorite chained to a stone wall. Perhaps I was supposed to lie down on the slab and press my pilgrim's palms together, exalted by a heavenward gaze, and hold a green-cowled moon between my thighs until I was released. The four of swords, blades all round, resting in a mausoleum with hyssop and yarrow on my stomach, and gardenias to swallow up the smell of death.

I think I was supposed to sit in a tree and empty my mind like a glass pitcher. I think I was supposed to go down into the grass, and know the roots by their Christian names.

IfI had memorized the hiragana of my palm-lines, and affixed my tongue to my eyelids, to taste the absence of color, I might have taken from this place a kind of gangrenous peace.

I was supposed to learn something here, something about how to bear this domesticated void within me, and not hear the howl of wind thorugh my lightless womb.


Portrait of the Artist As a Young Wine Glass

Posted on 2004.04.27 at 04:07
My hips are made of glass. In the halls of the library, they creak and shiver, multiplying their colors according to unnameable equations. They reflect books they do not understand, mute and stupid, meant only to carry the weight of glass-flesh. My feet alone are made of blood and skin, toenails like manuscript fragments, text hiding in the creases of heel and bone. The rest--I am a body of mirrors, slide into me and become a queen, I am empty, I am artifice, I absorb only blue light.

In the space between my breasts, coal has re-formed from diamonds. Here are scrawled buffalo and antelope and hunters trekking across the geography of the translucent torso, which is and is not an open vessel, which does and does not wait for the simple slip of your limb into its hall of terrors, which can and cannot see its own organs through the window-skin.

Break me, break me, break me, put your fist into my sternum and lick the blood from your hands. The nature of the glass-self is to be broken, to shatter--to burst is to become a nova of catherdral colors, and if I was once a blue veil of virgin thighs, I can be again. These kneecaps bend, bend, bend, and eagerly scratch themselves to dust on your teeth.



Posted on 2004.04.25 at 05:36
Full of that legendary black bile, I breath the algae-latticed water of 4 am, and it slides and ellides over my communion-tongue, tasting of eel-livers and verdigris. My lap is full of shattered light blubs, their pearl-sharp dust settling on my hair like a net of knives. The gratuitous morning boils on my scribbling hands, choleric light, mewling blue and grey. The Madonna of Pre-Dawn Light, Our Lady of Excess Humours. Legs crossed, the corruptible lotus, and the cicadas, the cicadas are stirring at my toes. See this frozen pose? This dead-limbed yogic splendor, hobbled at ankle and knee. And the stigmatic torso, where the winds were driven through, and the body broken into four stone slabs--I cannot read what the sun wrote on my bones.

I am sitting outside my skin, the horizon throttling with its petroleum fingers every neck I have ever owned. It is a poor beginning, all dressed up in methane blue and grimacing in the gin-soaked light, that door I can see off beyond the left-hand highway, the door that leads away from those dark fingers and their endless reach.

At 4 am, there is only the body of air and darkness, collapsing into itself like a Russian doll--daughter into mother into daughter into mother--and the wet sky-palms press down like a debauched baptism, pushing my red-lacquered skull into the next.


Manto Underground

Posted on 2004.04.18 at 23:40

What guards me in these rust-ridden hours? Only scabrous wraith-whores with snow-burned hands, verses like flecks of spittle at the corners of their lips, clutching at my ears with choleric tongues, transparent hips grinding against me, begging to have their fortunes told. Their yellowed limbs run like yolks over mine, (divine jaundice!) and all their eyes are the secret blue of the drowned.

They crush Tiresiac breasts against me, whispering of how they were once men, before the flood, and their pretty red cocks pointed east, east, east. The wind and the sun slid over them like slick mouths, and the world was awash with their seed. Of course, before they grew those primordial beards, they were women and their ovaries thumped in them like little hearts--they have switched so many times they cannot remember the original regalia. Every seven years the mating snakes appear, rattling out the old songs.

These tits, they confess, are only theirs by happenstance--they will give them over to me, if I want them--they long to feed a mouth, any mouth, to catch the thin white stream of dystopian milk. Like old aunts they purse my lips, running fingers over my teeth, pushing moon-slippery breasts into my throat until my jaw fractures without sound, smothered by this colorless flesh. They beg me to suckle at the psoriatic nipples, they stroke my hair, croon, weep, whisper huskily that they will come back when they are men again and will I still open my pretty red mouth?

These are my dead dears, my hermaphroditic sisters, hunched over my limbs and plying my tongue with oracular sweets, the prophecies of the eyeless breast, fluid augur gushing from the womb, wetting the walls with portents. They tell the lie that they love their brother-selves, but at midnight the clock forces confession, and their chorus hisses through the ceiling:

Only when we are mothers can we rape you with smiles painted on our bellies. Only when we are daughters can we fill up your womb with honey and mortar, and make you heavy with our slattern-koans.

Previous 10