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XIV.

define muscle

shoulder whole wheel

week

axle-tree

 

in all things he will excel me

Knausgaard

Karl Ove to his son

as a son from the point of view

of love my son asks me

to reattach the sterile patch

quickly his wounded arm

 

he will be leaving is it for us

is it for us to carry on

quickly to carry on

 

define muscle turning on the axle-tree

I can think of no better thing to say and

have no greater wish to wish him

I will tell him I wish that in all things

he will excel me Karl Ove said so

 

quickly I reattach the sterile plaster

to his open sore

 

 

it is inexcusable to use the phrase mortal weight

in an invented scenario I don’t believe abstraction

gains any height from it I don’t wish to pontificate

and inexcusable to lift the straw man of the left

on the railroad of disappointment China Miéville

imagines is a railway to invent imagine

a wanker in a hotel room or suicide I am her

do I clean do I wash am I soiled it is

from the wound of my mouth justified

wound we share we who have opened

each other’s legs

 

sickles

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so it is week XIII to be added to a kind of record

XIII.

withdraw to the foyers

we shall stay friends

the wind blows hair and papers that

could be skin and human

dust the chaff hulls and seeds that

hands have released fall dismally

from a violent place I sharpened

my eyes fell on them

I can’t explain except that

I’m out of my mind

 

outside on the threshold

outside the threshold a peace

certainly they took a peace that

came from my assurance

a peace comes down to them

it still comes down to them while

I am dismal and uncertain

 

do shadows explain the clouds

do shadows explain the dark

shadows move behind the glass

do shadows explain the monstrous shapes

a monstrosity moves out in the bay

 

is it cooler here yes

you can see my fingers wiggling

from between the louvres

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to fall and park at the past 3 weeks’ worth to a kind of record

VII.

 

can I ask you

it is raining

a kind of

weeping

from the sky

can I ask you

 

first a prayer

 

I start at Wednesday

do you sigh

do you say

or

are you silent

silent as each of my days’ poetry

as the prayer of the poem of each day

wind in wires

a bus that comes

 

the girls the bus girls speak about truth

about truth and beauty about truth and beauty

and innocence

can I ask you who is true to type

who is who who is not

truly

and how high their skirts were at the ball

 

Saturday unclear to me now

now a shadow deforms in the heat

 

what awareness does it take to form

long shadow of meaning

what else will you take

creeps over horizon

 

truly the 6th of December

dressed for all weather

packed front and back

a witch boarded a bus witch

hat green rib sweater

backpacked and fanny pack

with four blond daughters

 

her golden ones princesses

numbered four

white ducks

a black bordered photograph of Blanca

someone doctored for instagram the lost goose

her white flock left behind

 

to shed tears at farewells

and return

home

 

amply in the wires

Eliot the wind said

Christmas came

 

a song at least one said

are they not innocent and beautiful

and untrue

 

VIII.

scream and climb the ribbon

light onto horizon

 

 

and climb down

pointed legs

a spider dances

with white legs

 

darkness complete

as moon whiteness total

and toxic trees

small furred and feathered bodies

a lunatic enters the field

 

it is the new year

 

IX.

how have you chosen me before you have chosen

how

out of a fist tight cocoon a shadow deforms

a prayer first

and a saying opens

creeps

 

before you there was then the dead hour

Eliot Tiresias life

a feather on the back of my hand

 

wind the wind the wind

the wind that knows all has been foresuffered

foresuffering all

the wind knows amply knows the wires

 

and if he did not believe

then she spoke I have not

not the numbers not with me I have not google

not with me not

I have no cell

I have not

not I

 

a halo flew from the sun

to her head

from saying not I

ecstasy of saints

children

 

I saw this on the 7th of January

the day after my son’s birthday

Saturday

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3 quotes from Santiago Gamboa, sentiments for the season: illustrated with photographs by Sebastião Salgado

… beyond the borders of our beautiful countries there is a terrifying outside world filled with life, a black sun that stretches over a number of continents, only revealing its beauty after the first impact. What you see on the surface is horrible and cruel, but slowly the the beauty emerges; in our world, the surface is lovely and everything is bright and shiny, but with time what we see is the horror.

– Santiago Gamboa, Necropolis, trans. Howard Curtis, 2012, p. 446

… nothing of what we were then can be understood by anyone today, nobody believes in what we believed in; the things that were important to us provoke laughter or curiosity…

– ibid., p. 444

… the best way to live life to the full is to take it to the limits, putting your face in its deepest depths, its edges, its caverns and ruined palaces, only that way will we keep our bodies hot and our heads boiling with dreams …

– ibid., p. 447

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to be added this week to a kind of record each week added to: part VI

VI.

I am as I age wrestling with the idea of affirmation

a long death scene follows which I do not make up

when I return turn when I return the idea of a room

come on now they have his hands come on now rubber

fingers in mouth in arsehole inside a rummage sale of

public private interests like you when I return the idea

it’s not the first time you are dying and you have never

been disabled in my sight you have been old before you

before you have been a woman and you and have been

the child of a woman come on now like you I return turn

to at no instant where hesitation has a chance of being

being thrown by the who said the dark lady who said I

I have heard borne witness to grown men screaming

when

undergoing this procedure I climb in and out of bed

like you new angel angel new I cannot turn my eyes

away each thing returns at every instant I like you

heap up before myself

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celebrating Santiago Gamboa, as well as stating the obvious & wondering once again at the sentimental Left, melting even before it gets to the battlefield–were we fantasizing? grinning stupidly, terrifyingly

…the reasons someone who’s about to shoot another man thinks he has may vary, but the deed is the same, someone will press the trigger, and when the lead breaks the skin and drills into the cranium and damages a lobe and perforates it and opens a path in the brain, a life with a history and past will be cut short and a body transformed into a bloodstained mass that will fall to the ground, and that fact, which is horrible in itself and can’t in any way be explained or justified, makes all the reasons equivalent; in the middle of the twentieth century it was ideologies, then it was land or the control of resources, reserves of hydrocarbons. …

President Trump and Russian President Vladimir Putin talk during the family photo session at the APEC Summit in Danang, Vietnam, on Saturday.

Do you know the contemporary name for perversity? It’s democracy. If a chimpanzee with a drum becomes popular and amusing, he could be elected president.

– Santiago Gamboa, Night Prayers, trans. Howard Curtis, Europa Editions, 2016, p. 222

…the world wasn’t made for harmony and kindness, but quite the contrary, for confrontation. The world is a boxing ring, a battlefield. And you don’t go to battlefields with smiles and soft words, no, sir, you go armed to the teeth.

– ibid., p. 232

We played with madness (were we fantasizing?) until the afternoon gave my mouth the terrifying smile of the idiot.

– ibid., p. 290

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on a kind of record, II

II.

she said

I’m going to talk to you quite openly

and she

apologised for her vulgarity

 

is there a way onward

Juana

by Gamboa

the western cordillero

 

a patch of vomit

made up of the lights

of Bogotá

 

cupped in the hands

of a thousand digits

 

figures of bone

walk the western

horizon

 

still recognisable

moving without acknowledgement

you are watching

 

relations of yours

I ask

 

you trap me in fucking

you trap me

we shut up

we know

 

the identity

we need to show

indifference to

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the string section (or, the myth of anthropogenic bipedalism)

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destroyed wisdom

dear diary, today I like this phrase “romantic materialism.” today I ordered Elizabeth Grosz’s The Incorporeal and John M. Harrison’s Viriconium. …today I am nervous. today I am suspended between two ideas: one is, against immaterial labour and semiocapitalism, the idea of the place of care, care of the body, its pleasures and needs; it is an idea of the palliative industry, in which all media participate; capital care functions to feed on an industrial scale those who can afford to live inside it; it functions to distract from the suffering and from the desire and from the passions of the body, with easy listening, predigested package language-worlds, of viewing, touching, tasting, light-comedic mediatised commodities, popularised pulp & pap, lubricated & comfort sex; it is the service culture of safety & health; its wealth is the investment in an aging population even as it is being born, being born into an aging population, a universal retirement village and hospice is where you will live, dance occasionally, nod off, eat, shit & fuck, if you are born as one of the lucky ones. The other idea is postmodernism. It comes after modernism because it defrags it into the universal agreement to believe in price without cost, in the nonsymbolic exchange of money as the value of all values. Where modernism left you looking at yourself looking, postmodernism recognises that look–priceless… so destroyed wisdom today is my subjectline, the umbilicus of deconstruction from which I hang

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a subjective position is a way out

A world is only constituted on condition of being inhabited by an umbilical point of deconstruction, of detotalization, of deterritorialization, starting from which a taking of subjective position is incarnated.

– Guattari, The Schizo Chaosmosis (1991), in The Guattari Effect, 2011, p. 19

…do you see what you’ve been missing? Your act of world-making is not a reductive totalisation. Your positing of self is not projection. Your viewpoint doesn’t stretch from your mouth like a strand of bubblegum, that wraps the world up, around which you construct a bubble, in which, at the centre of which, you have no choice but to be mirrorstruck. You do not go around the world’s block peeing on lampposts to bring it into line with a kind of ownership, however illusory. Your world is not your beat. But your beat is the recurring fold of a subject-making.

Your world is not a speech bubble, a form floating from off of your lips at its pointiest end, where it arrows into your head. You do not blow and make it rise. It is not suspended by your effort, by your desiring production, even by your wish-fulfilment. It is not self-gratifying. But it leads you on a dance.

You dance out of your own omphalos. At the umbilical point, you are the world’s bubble, its speech-bubble. It doesn’t know what it is going to say, until you say it. It is already moving away from its own control, and it is already out of yours.

It undoes itself in your hands, in your eyes, in your mouth. It is a placenta auto-evacuating… you are born from it.

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