Thursday, January 1, 2015

about writing about -- a work in progress

                                                                          /barbara mor

Beckett sd it did not say it: the unworded word
Literatur des Unworts, SBeckett wrote 1937 letter in German
to Axel Kaun in Germany.   unworts
wort is a plant(in English). wort is a very strange thing that
grows w/out saying a word. about itself(in English). what is
utterd in other worlds we never know. it grows from inside
itself  or not it grows or not do not comprehend a category or
orientation(perspectival). You are not outside this wort is
somekind of fungus,in German before crime(literature)words
printd on/as selves on silence.
                                                (all things inkd this on silence
so long ago youll never know so long     ) it does not tell a
story about it speaks itself from  Time is not about time life
is not about life etc this is very proscriptive  sd somebody
else  the wort the wort from dirt grows clocks not inventd
(daylight) or yr eyes or yr declensions(yet) can you let it
be a wort asks questions like that(of the daylight) – inside
a mushroom all the stories of a universe to now absorbd
from soil(so far)its rainsweat lunar exhalation some star(so
far away)but it works.words.a clock does not tell it not yet
inventd bigger than you a very huge clock exists at the(or a)
beginning not yrs the Lit of unworts writes the unhuman
clock not ticktock but how a fungus might think
a philosophy of the interior &germanic music  that speaks
the wort.  the unwort: utters of before this noise what is you
think i dont think shut up in this dark to listen    Poem
Invention.thus the poem precedes the clock  not the huge
clock only philosophy grows there(in the dark) &romantic
music (we who yearn toward not about) there must be A
chemic biologic before all this,preferencing the dark 
                                         the machineries are clever but
they hurt my eyes. he sd. the earth(underground)(under
that) deeper than that a huge deepness  you(not there) it is
there rhizoming hears everything w/no ears a receptacle
of all sensation must stand push out sideways up down into
thick resistances yet it works undeaf unstoppd relentless in
our trembling way            ‘Writing must break through the
representational or fictional mirror & be equal in force to
the HORROR experienced in daily life.’ –KathyAcker,
The Words SayIt, Bodies of Work, 1997, p68        ‘How
can you not hear the terrible screams all around that we
call silence?’  -Karl Georg Buchner, 19th c.
 so (you) hear it screaming you dont want to hear fine fine
means theEnd goodbye ticktock there are many mansions he
sd this is one huge mansion lost/lockd in the sewers of rooms
clocks books the ennobld sewers of some minds w/strong of
trembling fingers pushing out into thick as moist or densely
soild what is what is  there i hear dont hear but know exists
rhizome radical eradiate radical radix resolute rotwort wyrd
below them the earth(underground)(under that)deeper than  
deeper   deeper

‘One does not become enlightened by imaging figures of
 light but by making the darkness conscious.’ -- Carl Jung      
Notes:   as Said
 ‘On the way to this literature of the unword, which is so
 desirable to me, ....’     Literatur des Unworts: German
  letter to Axel Kaun, July 9, 1937; in Disjecta: Miscellan                                          
  eous Writing & a Dramatic Fragment, Calder Publication,
  London, 1983; 2001, English trans., pg 173

Wort (neut) (pl Worter) word  (neut) (pl Worte) (spoken)
Wortschatz  m vocabulary (glossary) Worterverzeichnis
(neut)  -spiel (neut) pun.
wort n. A plant. Often used in combination: liverwort;
milkwort [ME<OE wyrt. see wrad-]
wort n. An infusion of malt that is fermented to make beer.
[ME<OE wyrt. see wrad-]
   wrad- branch, root  1. Basic form wrdd-  root; rutabaga,
   from Old Norse rot, root, from Germanic wrot-
                                   2. Old English wyrt, plant, herb
Important derivatives: root, radical, radicle, radish, radix;
deracinate, eradicate, eradiate; ramose, ramus, ramify from
Latin ramus, branch; rhizo, rhizome; coleorhiza, mycorrhiza,
licorice, from Greek rhiza, root

o so close to wyrd the word is weird
writing from writing of writing against writing into
&/or  the word unworded       inward  toward                          aug 23 2012                                                                     


the final line of his final publishd work was ‘what is the
word’   notes John Banville, Beckett: Storming for Beauty,
NYRB March 22, 2012


so who heard scream   she sd  is that a word         i dont
here in a room my acoustic skull is heard   radios of silence
rare sound  the stations of the crossd purposes  roads  go
hear go there go  straight down when it dials you in like a
card game  allow you sit in on the atmospheric   games  of
intention the intertensional air then music then news then
static  cooking     then silence,at end as  beginning of   its
continuum   the etymology of             scream

SBeckett on Kafka’s The Castle:          ‘I remember feeling
disturbed   by the imperturbable aspect of his approach.  I
am wary of disasters that let themselves be recorded   like
a statement of accounts.’                             ___ ibid ___

it is now a species    animal species that hates         itself 
breeding like cockroaches  clean people,we are  apt  as
rational  they (cockroaches)             dont pay attention
dont pay       the rent       dont pay for    the music   what
music do you want to   here in yr lonely     elevator   in 
&out of a bldg who is   occupied   by bugs    how it feels
at night   i lay on the floor every nite    woke up w/bites
chewd into (all)my legs    a hotdog  uncookd  left out on
the kitchen counter in the dark              in the morning
chunks  chewd out  big bites for   cockroaches  you wd
think but all sizes of  them   grow here,seethe   multiply
some can fly        in the dark  some can fly,or   i will
learn    also         
                           this is    ‘a statement of accounts’ 

so a  work in progress    means,what        draw something
out    from a wall( absolute  )thick skull, lean  into it   the
other side   seethes      .or not  or not  if not,what
herd  in the dark  muttermummer    darkGermanic   music
who inventd     the clock,no   listend   to some heart(beat
  beaten  inside)  march into it           no,wrong  cancel 
.the true desire  was   hands knees prayer  crawl inside  as a
cave   was warm  in the dark,smell of   warmdark  as if
                                                                      some sounds
are heartbeats of  cockroach   mothers  inhabit yr skull
long before     you 
                  /words grow (chronic<chthonic)   :backward /
who slithers back down the throat  in its    last word

   clock  Uhr  clockwork  Uhrwerk    clockwise  go on
UrClock before  (that)   mudderwidder     im Uhrzeigersin
counterclockwise  Uhrzeigersinn  entgegen   (widdershins)
(  rootmute           ssshhh)                           / as umbilical
code winds up   back into It      backword   that brainstem
rewinds    re this air  stale  mustd  redolent (the word)of
extinctd species  (bookstores)  old people live hear old
things  in the walls   prefer   silent soup           climb  an
extinct elevator   or stairs staring at the steep stairs  some
shoeprints staind sadly   something crawld up also  lucid
slime  sibyl   sibyllant   a hissing sound
                                                      [MLGer  weddersinnes
<MHG widersinnes: wider, back <OHG widar ; +sinnes
in the direction of; sin, direction <OHG; see wi- see sent-]

Glocke  is a bell  ,however: UrhClockUrClock  hellKlingel
bell on the Door   deathclock
      Glockenspiel   spiel, game; theatrical play   Glucksspiel 
gambling (something is at stake     )       so  old people
sit  a table,recursive  fingers sense the cards or air as braille
messages    read        dictionaries drive people mad  it sd  
what does  anyone   here    rehearsive  of      some snake
winds among  them,under  the table into  their legs sex
dramatic cavities    where first orations  were utterd  so old
who doesnt   here hear   Time   as the game playd  among
them   or want it                      .otherwise
    this is not romantick  this is not  poetick  this is not man
tick                (or perhaps    is)( the pun(t)ick  wars)
  so it is playing (cards dice Time Life) w/itself   reading
magazines  in the nextdoor apts  cockroaches are young  as
Death once was   earnest& impatient to clean up  the mess
endless revolution  plots in the ground nothing buried deep
there but sound,unhuman sound   as in the humming walls
or  silences of great thought  Einstein invented television &
sees yr bones  in the dark  glowing  &other  farseeing men
as maggots of literature   synthesize  bodies  into growing
words   like mold  in the walls,do not despise   it also
serves   in the end     to tell Time
                        there is no end to some    sentence
as fatal dice in einsteins skull   bone inside bone(Beckett
heres  the deathrattle  )                         inword about
bug insect ticks  autotick ticktickticktick    chronos eats
giganticClock of germanicmusicMozart elevates his children
up to a compulsd mouth  2/4 4/4 march ofTime &eats them
hideous    Mozart  relentless  metronome  tickherd  Macht
sund     pretty armies of them,hum he hums to  (flutterd
matrons patrons he flatterd bugs as kultur in their uniformd
wigs logorhythmic gestures,artifices gowns powderd w/the
flakd skin  falling thru air  beyond some plunderd corpse
hemisphere   not his,theirs  not hear  yet   sublime noise
ofClock  woundup;tight other wounds,preludes & fugues
of  innersound deeper than nervousTime(backwarding)into
sublime Futures                               hideous
what does all this have to do  w/a book  i threw one at the
wall once  over & over      to stop the noise


dichter   dictation diction dictator    using ones baton as a
dick   or viceversa   versasvice   culture is nice
                everything who annunciates hurts my eyes
the necessity you see of some(unword)  dictionary of,for
we know exists before us   pray,hands and knees crawl
into some  grund as they say is very deep because hidden
from us,noise  cannot penetrate,only serious music as of
the sea bottom once  you cannot go there,breathing   of
human sound   entirely,
 sound penetrate ascertain the depth of water measure or
examine as by sounding  (O)F sonder use the sounding-
lead  :-Rom subundare from Lat sub + unda wave  So
sound act of sounding (surg) instrument for probing
    sound  ground    sund   grund  the body was once
dichter  is a poet   conducted words without breathing
where the body        is a sea      
grund  bottom of the sea or cave wormd thru grunting as
we were inside a bowel or whatever (s)urgd this forward
grund grunt no accidents in poetry  occur w/out intent
of a Poet(dichter)  bigger than you but not 
Metaphysickal   you never understood(impossible,grund
under you  under waves stolid tides of heaving massive
shifting  as if thighs some creature who cannot give
birth  enough   to get it   out                                                   dec 12-14 2012

        poem Gedecht     poet Dichter   poetic dichterish
poetisch   poetry Dichtkunst
        Dictator   in this language  recognizd  the tongue
rules  offices lands desertd hovels of rejectd mss. the
dictator declares  unspeakable   & there  you are  worms
in their apts & cubicles the library mansions &hovels of
dejectd mass   soupbowls  selfdeclensiond arbiters of
high culture moths mutters        & there you  are 
      theGermanic tongue  w/a spike thru it  .recalling the
forest Wall of wood in its parental beauty  everyone is a
child there once the fearful is not estrangd but      a story
tell us again  who what we are this stuttering because the
spike is a Word or the tongue is  one or the other which
utterd which never did
                                                    i forgot
mord or mutter mord is the word for Death,it is black and
shiny  &enjoys itself(glistend in the rain the black trunks
listend to their thoughts  leaving them)  i do not believe in
Evil except the murder of aTree  & from the corpse comes
Buche(beech) buch bok book  the pain inherent  axed into
poem   (&home   a home       shelter of Spike  morder by
tongue)  he doesnt want to speak it  only because he is
writing in German to a german as his tongue isEnglish  he
doesnt want to speak  grudgingly to mudder in his cradle
milk pourd over him pages of (silence) stubbornness
                                               (silence)spilling words out
like pulling teeth that is the way to speak Beckett sd  as if
it hurt   woman not pulld from the glib ofAdam but he
from she (something hissing like a snake                     
                                      ( from her cunt from her Kunst   )
    what is mud   mudde  probably MLG mud  MHG mot
bog, bogearth, peat       mot  French  means word, note (n.
mot m. parole)         wort in german   word    it grows in
mudde  dont we all    those who know this  worship their
books like  trees  reluctant to burn them,except they make
warmth it is  a sin nevertheless(a direction)nevertheless  it
is a cathedral  in there in the forest  black soil pourd in us
upward,root tree book  poem  rises in some fire a vision
original angel of pages opening as wings  we saw it,not
yr imagination  how the barbaric forest   could talk,a
deep majestic,prolific thick w/things fungusd spidery
mammaryd &clawd tuskd    crawling as flying upward
sudden  in their immolations ofPoems   sent upwards
from mud,sent to head for,go    widdershins from OHG
sin(d), direction, from Germanic sinthaz   you see the
canny thing arises sont-o godsend from OEng sand,a
message messenger from Germanic sandaz, that which
is sent.  the poem from its root.  Derivatives as(sense,
sentence, sentiment, sentinel, assent, consent, dissent,
presentiment, resent), from Latin sentire, to feel(<to go
mentally’)    it cannot be otherwise the only sin is not to
know it,to be born  from this earthKunst   and not speak
(mute)from  mud    even burning  burning  
         & it is not yr God not yr God  who is alive here
these are annunciations these are  pronouncements
these are                words

Beckett   :the creature rippd of his tongue not  ever
born,heard  gutterally hard difficult attempts at   some
language lingo(e)d the  motherTime  before they cut
the trees down clockd his roots into a (muter)Job  this
faroff  howl of a forest in his   blut  say blood,blood  do
not mut(at)e erase this   urgent message   it does not
sound like       literature,stupid


scream: 12th c. screamen, uncertain origin, similar words
               in Scandinavian,Dutch,German,Flemish (cf ON
               skraema ‘to terrify, scare’ Swedish scrana ‘to
               scream’ OHG scrian, Ger schreien ‘to cry’
The noun is attested from mid-15th c.
   And (as they say) lamentings heard i’ the’ Ayre; Strange
   schreemes of Death’     [Macbeth, II, iii, 61]
Shakespear’s spelling probably reflects ‘sk-‘ as spelled
in Latin-derived words, e.g. school; he also has schreene
for screen.
Slang: ‘something that evokes a cry of laughter’ in 1903;
screamer in this sense 1831. Screaming Meemies—WWI
Army slang, German artillery shells making loud noise in
flight (from woman Mimi), extended to battle fatigue after
long exposure to enemy fire.


all words are     such long  exposure


skraema  scrana scrian  screamen  uncertain  of,from  a
Wald of   skulle   The head, regarded as the seat of thought
or intelligence. 3. A death’s head  [ME skulle, prob of Scand.
orig.]  axd the head of  brave foes as heroes also off,lodgd 
stone wedges  of housewalls   in honor  of ourThought 

Skuld  OldNorse ‘future’ ‘debt’ 1of Norn3,Fate deciders
(female), Valkyrie also, she escortd his whole body Up,
as aFire   (invisible) meanwhile,the skulle  some stare as
bone inside walls                         heroes submit,or pay 
or bugs    asDichter  Death  requires

it walks    thru bourgeois novels  a cockroach  addressd  a
neat suit  impeccable   back&forth to the job downtown&
a little family of   hideous numbers of similar ambitions  
or not   (  of theClock,crawling (so much he desires  of)  
                                                  upwardly Being 
as he must be  distinguishd   from the dust   &i do not
begrudge him  anymore feeding his little appetite on my
flesh     thats what its  for   (poetry,after all  malignates
inside him eats him from inside,guts brains   tongues&
all   to resolve him,in this white light   into the lost
forest   he,his chattermutter ofviruses &worms mutefood
of the next gods   or,as host  to chew remorseless on his
sad regret,oblivion  because    we can,because Poetry
we can
  we ride thru fire transporting it th’ embodied Thought


flip the switch on this   nightwerk  nitewort   making
scratchd brown notations leaving shitstains on pages the
pages that smell of  scurry of  multitudes  when you
walk in incandesce  a light       you are sitting there at
      table  all yr fingers legs wings  are busily   writing
some genius is a trail of  slime code  moving it does not
know ahead (a head)  no  precedes it  only sund  grund
gravity pulsates  beat of buried things  yr ears,yr wings
it must not be poetic  it must be   hideous  hidden in
yr[ME var of hidous <AN <OFr hide, hisde, fear, poss.
of Gmc orig] glorious   machinery of  mutterRime
.it is the  story  of yr people    from the thorax,from    
bone,the heart        & there you  are      or  not 
    there you    are                              are not

to go mentally  feel yr way up the stair down the naked
elevator  whatever direction it can be felt   in yr apt
where you rest  red the blanket sleeping or read a book
every word,footprint stain on the page  brown,not read
cockroach leakd of  marching feet into yr eyes of  bugs
yr ears yr mouth every hiss of orifice oreface of Being
(Guttenberg,each thought shiny black  metaphysickal of
our risen blood  which is first re(a)d but then brown as
mutterd earth  who goes into you as a matter of  feeling
into you from there to hear where you are/It  belongs
because   there is no choice in Time    it goes on.
                       in the darkness   also   & there you are
   &when you enter turn on the kitchenlight  armies of
them massd  concentration camps refugees  silent(made)
workers in the  cockroach factories   scurry out of yr
sight  they think,in fact never can you forget   the sight
do not stampede perhaps orderly coordinatd in their
DNA  as bugs do it  or as birds fly magnetized to their
destination   out   and home  out and  home     .forever
                                                    & there you are

dicht  dense; (Wald, Nebel, Stoff) thick; (nahe) close
(by); (wasserdicht) watertight    -Rom subundare from
Lat sub+unda, wave  :sound, a sounding

all this is a   word  a statement of   beyond grammar  in
the walls interface of their silence  music  whatever
the place it does not care if you   exist   but it is yrs  to
                                not yet   :Literatur of the unword
‘german bilge’,Beckett sd   later   germanic bilge
                                         our Mutter  tun(g)                          dec 20 2012

as dogs drink from a dish,happy slobby tongues   from
a deep bowl of the sea    howling chunks of the wind
stuck in yr wretchd throat   
             it is cooking cabbage          there is a fist up
some ass  do pigs squeal  is it pain joy duration  what
is God to speak of    farts of air    breath w/out Fodder
tongues lungs  what happend to the sky   if it is god the
fatherFacts  are brutal animals are not brutal  language
is brutal       as happy dog a wretchd dog 2 different
gods  from the bowel of the sea extract a    reason  .talk
like this    wave yr many  hands urgently  indicate
choking                                                                                   nov 3 2013

eorthan modor   mother earth     to speak is murder 
&silence  suffocates   the bitch stuffs it in a mouth &
you have no choice     rune runa  ‘to speak’ ‘to cut w/a
knife’  sd
Tacitus in Germania these Gothics are confusd between
their tongues &their tools of utility as if    
                                                               ‘a secret’ ‘to
whisper’  in their dark they mutter  &can also  kill   it
is proven   delirium,not useful  to empire   which
slaughters   rationally    wave yr many hands of dark
wind   otherwise,i brush my 2 palms clean  move on

the unword is to shut up he sd  the words in his head
heard their  own music  & went  on   the marching feet
blackbootd cockroaches   hear their own rationale
for continuing   &keep going
                                             not to be bored   w/his
silences did he think his being alone (interesting)did   
he think his  Being   alone                                                      dec  2013

there is a serpent  ssshhh sound and a wolf, who howls

 ‘It is the past-the longest, hardest of pasts-that seems
  to surge up whenever we turn serious.’  -FNietzsche
Genealogy of Morals 1887 Nietzsche on the interior
caves of theGermanic soul he should know but of the
brain which is the soul in fact or of cockroaches in some
global bioregions they are green,fluorescent, glow in
the dark some unlike typical regimental cockroach who
scatter w/sudden light switchd on in our rooms or  a
candle flared up  the wall moves w/them  in a hideous
maneuver of ancient discipline some,who glow greenly
in the night of the brain which is the soul in act do not
move but stand their ground(or wall) some are huge &
                                         fly  &reach for glory  no
doubt in their stinking dark           
the furious energy of growing things striving for
exaltation     as plants,trees grow disciplind maniacs
from their roots of dark,dark groping  what is the Sun
some crown or brain burst that cannot last   to be
glorious    this is why we are       
                                                    this is why we are
murderous   sublimely murderous      

(some i knew small,incessant dreary leaving shit on   
 the desperate mss pages  excremental smell of the
 literate or those who hate them   or no it is the fetid   
 march ofTime   its fe(a)t of disembodied soldiers  ) 

‘Female German cockroaches reproduce faster when
 stroked slowly in short bursts by a long, barbed,
 motorized duck feather.’ [Harper’s June 2014 pg 96]
those who dont mind being grotesque in pursuit of     
no it is pain  only the human achieves thisObscene it
is so common fugal it orgasms Bach fists Beethoven                                                        
Coriolan as if i listening hear it swell a great wind or
soul around it  as if mine  &go forth into a stinking
              Romans sd Beckett roads viaducts popes i
cant go on   [Alarich Gothic 1st German to conquer

if earth thinks    how are we to know if it does or does    

not   beyond this thought ....                                                   jan/jun  2014   

Monday, January 13, 2014

Things called parasite

Things called parasite

[Written in response to Parasites: Fragments of the Non-
 Human, by Antti Salminen,, Dec 18, 2012.
 Salminen is editor of niin & nain, the FinnishSwedish
 journal of philosophy.]

Writing about writing is a parasitical act. As acts of writing
are parasites on spoken language as human language a(sub/
meta)leech on material consciousness. i am a poet we fix on
hook into suck out juices from Life. as a tapeworm in our own
bowels (brains feel like bowels also) This process descends into
the darkest root & rot of chemical earth, the giantBody selfserve
cafeteria upon which everything alive here feeds. As a parasite.
This essay is awesome in this sense: it seeks to reveal something
to utter something essentially awful/aweful about the nature of
Life. we are a chaingang of leeches sustained (& defined) by
this universal crime.                              i.e. life

The chaingang of Being is palindromic, it goes both directions.
Perspective is everything, i.e. ride the escalator look both up &
down. Humans see lowly/lowlier forms as parasitical on higher
(ultimately Us). In the real world we are parasites on the huge
entity, the planetary body, but also on all the subterranean forms
we tend to despise. Or fear for their alien hideousness. This
essay says: Voila: c’est moi! but retains the sublingual shudder
of such recognition.
it’s not just a literary trope                   we are the horror

yet as (civilized) humans can successfully conceal this sine
qua non aspect/attribute of our glorious memoir subtitled we
are hideous. Parasitesfragments of the nonhuman presents
thereby as an uncanny voice, of the wholly alien yet feels so
familiar. things found in the presence of medieval dabblings
branded obscene as forbidden(alchemy, witchcraft). Visceral
sounds, some language some have been reaching for, each in a
secreted basement like digging into a wall or floor that could
open up into Hell, &/or monsters, &/or the only way out.
we are hideous               if recognition is escape
Or not
As statement of political strategy after politics & language
experiment beyond the end of writing, it says:
  ‘The experimental must allow itself to be experimented
   on by admitting that it is in the process of becoming
   something that it does not know.’
There is beauty in this, and something very scary.
  ‘These metamorphoses may be lethal, but never unnatural.
   The nature of parasites cannot be returned to survival.’
In current context of world extremis demonstrating itself, with
every way out a terminal wound also, metahuman technologies
& every real attempt at sub/metawriting (transwriting, in
desperately conscious trance) changes, will change the beloved
writing change the beloved world radically: it cant be helped.
it must be & it will  never be the same. No return. Every vital
experiment is an opening to irreversible degradation (it’s
already been tried with the body open opening to every/any
possibility, with results in death, epiphany, commercial/media
cooptation, stale redundant merchandise that no longer thrills
illuminates anything). But in this essay, we are shown this
is precisely & only the only possible strategy for extension
into a future. The risk of being(acknowledging)ourselves as
parasites; knowing it is not a pretty or referred thing to be;
definitively, i.e., a necessity.
         this requires the courage of a worm a bug a disease
to keep on going

Whatever I am saying about Parasites is of course a travesty
of it: it is a Poem in itself, which should not be explained.
Nor should my mind parasite on its author’s mind in poem,
it feels uncomfortable & cheap to do so....however, as a
nominal social/economic career parasite forever, & also
parasiting like all writers eating into & sucking away at the
brainjuices & fibers of all the great writers one can burrow
into (to learn, to feed, like any dumpster diver) – what else
can I do? My words are redundant, duh. Parasites is a Poem
about itself, also a very canny strategic paradigm for political
survival on FutureEarth, which is here now. Only for the
brave, transego, who love something beyond us as our only
face left in a mirror which must be shattered into a door.
Things called parasite, like things called Beauty, are
always in the historic eye of a beholder.

The uncanny (&political) beauty of the earth is that
every living thing in its primal state is an innocent (i.e.
happy) leech, earnest in our usage. None of us functions
subjectively in shame or apology for this condition. We
all believe we are essentials, doing our job, the lowliest
syphilitic bacteria to the Pope in his little redsatin slippers.
Any ‘parasitical’ function is a linguistic observation made
by a human species proned in our usual arrogant OCD
toward righteous definition.
(An assigned name that puts things in their place.)

In overpowering systems of global Dominance, which
fling the designation around casually, in contempt of
anything that makes them itch...being named a Parasite
is being disfigured with a ShameBrand. Economic &/
cultural parasites can know how a Worm aBug feels, but
the human bug of Kafka feels the human shame of the
loaded definition. No real parasite suffers this: in its
function it knows it contributes its sine qua non part to
the whole. Otherwise, why would it exist?

  ‘....Taphrina seen on ostrich fern...tormentil or downy
  birch...nematodes in hares & rabbits...waterbears....’

And tapeworms in adorable children, emaciating them
from the inside, & hideous viruses tumors pollutions
increasingly populating our species with ghastly faces
epidemic to us. It is not a beautiful (to us) lifestyle, or
defined as a noble one, a designated pursuit of the best
& brightest. Nothing left but the night:

  ‘....the only true revolution is a revolution of life, and
   the only true revolution of life is made from the inside,
   with patient suddenness in the flesh of the experience
   of night.’

lines like this are shivers of that recognition

Aspire to be creatures of the night. Lines like this already
recognized as eroticVampiric, but Parasites does not slink
shiver thru sexily illusioned futures. Actual undergrounds
crawl with worms & corpsethings undergoing vast lewd
changes. But it is not as spectators at a horror flick, but as
the despised real creatures of this parasitical function that
we (some of us) must learn to become. That last quoted
line makes me shudder, in its beauty. Because it is also
true. Parasites of the chthonicSublime, eating from/inside
the aweful Material epiphany. Underground politics, the
only serious future writing: be a despicable bug a worm a
lowly lethal cannibal virus. Cringe if it enhances but do
not selfdestruct.
yr job is important.         we also serve.....

                                         © barbara mor    nov 13, 2012

Things called parasite

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Horse Emerges

Horse emerges from vulva. First poem of the
night. From a moist and absolute
darkness come the shining horses. The
stone explodes sensation I am galloping
like  orgasm a spray of heat sweat becomes
the body of stars. This is the imagination
of the first night.
And the skull, with horses kicking inside
it, splattering rock and flesh (so it
thinks) of thunder of thought of words
dust of expanding nebulae
In the dark, escape enormous walls of
deranged calcium
a black abdominal time bulge outward spasms
become huge space of utterance
spew out spew out Luminous and swirl of
atoms from crotch and throat of, sweating
Whirling hooves of galaxy lungs clouds
blood slime solitude of matter
crack the pelvis of great darkness who
gives birth to all this
                                                    In the beginning,
each 12 billion years of 150,000 years
when the horse kicks, thrashes, explodes its
dark  head kicking out of many stars
into/against so many stars
becomes the dream of loneliness Repeat
the pelvic bone of darkness almost cracked
with such poetry
I sprawl, lolling blue tongues, silence
bruised by imagination
Hairy cunt mouth shattering with words,
worlds pour out. This is the subject of
the first night.


                                                                                              © Barbara Mor 2013