FAUX NAIVE
Can we talk about the “faux naive”? It’s a ‘tude I can’t seem to shake…
Category: Uncategorized
_The Spy (?) Who Learned from Me_
When I was teaching an evening ESL class on the upper east side at a community center, I had a lot of students from the United Nations along with the immigrants who made up the core of the program. I had students from Bulgaria, Venezuela, the Cote d’Ivoire, China, Mexico, Angola, Colombia, Korea, France, Israel, and Brazil. I also had four students from Iraq. They were all delightful.
Two of those students were in my high intermediate class: Saleh and Sa’ad. Douglas Rothschild taught them as well. They worked in the Iraqi mission to the United Nations. There were some unusual conditions attached to their jobs. For one thing, they were not allowed to leave the five boroughs of New York City without special permission. They were also not obliged to pay sales tax anywhere. They showed me a special card they carried that they would flash at cashiers and presumably, be exempted from paying sales tax. I always wondered, did the cashiers believe them? And what was to stop someone from forging such a card?
All of my Iraqi students took every chance they could to mention the deleterious effects of the US sanctions on their country.
The other students used to tease them about their many wives. Actually, I think Sa’ad was the only one who was actually married, and he had just one wife.
Saleh had a wonderful, slightly overenthusiastic manner and a big grin to match. When he got excited or wanted to emphasize something, his eyes would open wide so you could see the whites on all sides of his pupils. He was a biochemist. When he learned that I used to work at Cambridge University Press (before their inhumanly non-ergonomic windowless freezingly drafty computer station mangled my delicate frame), he asked if I could obtain for him some scientific volumes he’d been yearning for. With my worker’s comp case pending (as it still is two years later) I was no longer eligible for free or discount copies, so I wasn’t able to oblige him. Had I done so, I wonder, would John Ashcroft now be breathing down my neck?
The other Iraqi student in the same class, Sa’ad, was over six feet tall and impeccably handsome, with a well-trimmed moustache, square jaw, and very white teeth. Not only did he look like Omar Sharif, but he had old world manners — the perfect diplomat/gentleman. I ran into him by chance one day in Grand Central Station and he said “Hello, Nada. I am very glad to see you. If there is anything you need, please let me know.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that (I’m still not), but it seemed a very chivalrous thing to say. He was often absent from class, busy with UN matters. He didn’t show up at all the next term.
Then one day I booted up my computer and on my Yahoo start page was a news item saying that an Iraqi named Sa’ad was “asked to leave” the USA because he was suspected of spying. I clicked on the item but couldn’t confirm that it was my student Sa’ad who was under suspicion.
Later I ran into Wissam, another student from the Iraqi mission, by chance (!!) in a wonderful Lebanese store on Steinway St. in Queens. When I asked him about Sa’ad, the worried, furtive look on his face confirmed, before he even uttered his affirmative answer, that it was indeed that handsome gentleman.
That was the closest I ever came to a spy or suspected spy, as far as I know.
Sa’ad, Saleh, Wissam, Ju Ma’a — I’m thinking of you.
I’m interested in the personae we are all generating on these blogs.
I love how people bring flowers on the birthday.
It feels like Bette Davis’ dressing room around here.
Thank you, dear my friends!
Yes, Kasey, a Googlism poem is a real poem.
That state of mind you mention, in which there are no bad poems…. is otherwise known as BLISS.
SPOOGE
spooge is your friend
spooge is pretty much a term that
spooge is a term passed across from the furry domain
spooge is a personal choice
spooge is connected to the following things
spooge is connected to because
spooge is a copper and carbon solvent
spooge is a king’s ransom
spooge is now available on dvd
spooge is not a romantic word
spooge is just a particular instance of a larger
spooge is sprayed on everyone
spooge is one of the most disgusting terms ever
spooge is a perfectly legitimate word
spooge is going to be number one
spooge is
spooge is? 14girl
spooge is wierd or unexplicable computer code or output
spooge is the only thing worth drawing because it’s the only thing fans want
spooge is something which you
spooge is living
spooge is a skin repair cream developed especially for climbers
spooge is a documentary film with a story line and a big payoff at the end
spooge is gonna be all over ya
spooge is prevalent
spooge is slang for spill
spooge is all there is
spooge is for cvs guile
spooge is for you
spooge is kindred
spooge is another
spooge is broke
spooge is spooge
spooge is a squirt gun
spooge is too much? playfur
spooge is just one of many names for the remenants from an adhesive label
spooge is cum you fucknob
spooge is always a lot of fun
spooge is soooo
spooge is involved
spooge is quite tasty
spooge is good for you
spooge is of utmost importance
spooge is more correct date
spooge is more correct 25 apr 2002 re
spooge is combustible
spooge is painful enough to watch in the privacy of your own domicile
spooge is unnecessary and a waste of time
spooge is ranked 369 and has played for 36m in 30 days
spooge is imming me
spooge is spent
spooge is now more favoured than $eep
spooge is much
spooge is cool by me
spooge is find the right hairdresser
spooge is due to a combination of things
spooge is dripping down on the swingarm and getting all
spooge is now a high priestess in the church of satan
spooge is not allowed on it
spooge is too
spooge is to get out of brown workshirts? rj
spooge is a good alternative to armor
spooge is replying to this message
spooge is running down her thighs
spooge is dripping from her bottom and face
spooge is one of my proudest traits
spooge is gelatinous and gooey
spooge is gross schabe
spooge is not
spooge is? do you _know_ what spooge is? have you ever seen spooge?
spooge is a furry term for semen
spooge is just
spooge is everything that you need to get off and on your way
spooge is *not* something that has to be tolerated
THE VISCERAL
Jonathan Mayhew writes:
I guess the urge to eliminate ornament is part of that whole puritanical strain. Like Horace decrying Persian luxury or Antonio Machado rejecting Rubén Darío’s verbal excess. If you try to purify poetry, get rid of its “poetic” and sentimental attachments, you end up with nothing. It seems like these elements are extraneous, but they end up being inseparable from whatever it is you want to preserve.
Maybe I’ll let that be the last word on ornament for a while (except to say that, since I took up this topic, I keep hearing that awful song, “You…you decorated my life” everywhere I go). Now I want to move on to the notion of THE VISCERAL. The ikky, the sloppy, the disconcerting, the horrifying and/or nasty, the blatantly sexshall or the simply gooey.
_The Smear Test_
It was nothing to worry about, for it was not
intimidating, but funny almost, the slurpy sounds
that flapped from her vagina as he cranked it open;
the modesty blanket, that veiled no one’s view but hers,
as though she’d gag to see her sex exposed.
It was comedy, the way she had to splay
her thighs wide enough to welcome a rugby squad.
And it was nothing to worry about, for it was not
painful, but tender almost, the spatula nosing
into her tight hole like a coy mouse, an elfin penis,
a fork gently testing the haddock is cooked through.
No, it was nothing to worry about.
And if her boyfriend hadn’t told her that later,
pissed as a cunt and weeping like a raped whore,
she had hit him and hit him and screamed, ‘Fuck off
and don’t touch me, don’t ever fucking touch me,’
she would never have dwelt on it.
Except for its content, this is a totally normal poem, correct? There’s not even a taste of the semantic or syntactic dislocation we have come to expect from poems nowadays. Neither I nor anyone I know would ever write such a poem as this. And yet I like it very much. If I am going to read a poem that exhibits “control” of the “medium” of language and “mastery” of the “craft” of poetry, this is the sort of poem I want to read — not the “avant-garde” version that basically serves as a ruefully nostalgic, apologetic sort of middle ground for poets who secretly wish that everything really can be made to cohere. Not that I’m referring to anyone in particular here.This poem is sharp and amusing and sad and emotionally devastating all at once, for all its facility and well-schooled rhetorical cleverness. So what, besides its topic, makes it “visceral”? In large part, it’s those verbs: crank, flap, gag, splay — we’re almost in the realm of comic book language. And the bizarre metaphors — the medical spatula a “coy mouse” [why not a gerbil? i think this writer would not have shied away from the larger rodent had it scanned properly], an “elfin penis” [ewww!], or the muscles of the vagina as so much whitefish, prodded by a fork. Or how about that word, “slurpy’? Accurate, isn’t it, yoginis? It’s the divergence between the propriety and control of the form and the violence of the subject matter and diction that makes this poem a kind of sick pleasure to read. Like seducing a Catholic schoolgirl, I imagine.
The poet seems to have learned all her lessons from Auden. Her “Work and Lunch” is an updated version of “The Unknown Citizen.” I won’t quote it, as I’m trying to focus on “the visceral”, and after I quote just one more poem of hers, I will tell you more about her:
My Bed
Tracy Emin lives down the road from me,
and recently’s had notable acclaim
due to a certain bed. As poetry’s
in need of press, I thought I’d do the same —
show you the place I slept and dreamt and came!
Admittedly, it’s not in the best taste,
but self-promotion must be in-yer-face.
The bed’s not strictly mine, more my boyfriends’
given him by his sister, which was nice.
It’s broken, but it’s okay for our ends —
insomnia’s a poet’s favorite vice.
So now the guided tour — just some advice —
don’t sniff too deep, I haven’t washed the sheets
for weeks, and there may be a tang of yeast.
Here is the pillow where my sleepy head
has left an indent, like a world war bomb.
Here’s the wet patch, and here is where I said:
Of you’re getting a drink please get me one,’
the snot that I fished out when he was gone,
and sneaked under the valance; the mishap
where I splodged gravy, eating off my lap.
Here is the duvet, under which I sweat
through many a long, dark night of the heart,
where I wrote “Knowledge’, ‘Post’, and other hits,
the dark and foetal hothouse of my art.
Where bedbugs gnaw my flesh, and cut skin starts
to be repaired. It’s here I get whiny
when it seems football’s always on TV.
Not intimate enough? Here’s a cum-rag
that’s fallen down the side and not been seen —
observe its crisp petals and grubby clag.
Imagine I am wiping myself clean!
And from the tissue box feel free to glean
that I am more concerned with cash than flash —
they are Economy; rough as a rash.
…….
The poem goes on for eight more stanzas, in which she waxes philosophical about the importance of beds. I don’t think they’re as good as these first scene-setting five, so I won’t quote them here. What I would like to know from you, friends and readers, is YOUR opinion of the two poems I’ve quoted. Here’s a little more info on the poet: Claire Pollard, from the UK, born 1978 (biologically speaking, she’s young enough to be my daughter).These poems are from her second book, _Bedtime_, on Bloodaxe Books. (Aren’t they the same publishers who did the Prynne collection? Can you imagine a poet further from Ms. Pollard?) Book cover: famous picture of Marilyn Monroe clutching a pillow. Back cover, author photo of Pollard lying back on a pillow. What do you think, people? Terrible? Interesting? Absolutely unbearably embarrassing? Stupid? Masterful? Let me know and I’ll post your opinions.
I will end with one of my most vaginally visceral poems (from Are Not Our Lowing Heifers Sleeker than Night-Swollen Mushrooms?):
Fleshscape
To make a cape
of flesh, take
the labia minora
between the thumb
and forefinger, s-t-r-e-t-c-h
downwards and back
over the buttocks, then
upward along the ribcage,
curling them over
shoulders. Using palms,
rub the end flaps
onto the pectorals.
They will stick to the body
surface warmly, smelling
of minerals and cream,
their rosy hue ideal
for summer evenings.
To make a column
of flesh, pinch
the labia majora
between the eyelids,
s-t-r-e-t-c-h upwards
to the lilting sky
over rosy hillocks
and further
as an entertainment
for the pantheon.
Using balms, rub
the end flaps
onto the goddesses.
They will stick
to the body surface
warmly, in drapes
and folds, smelling
of conflict, their salmon
hue painting the firmament
they wave around in.
Lose the cares
of the flesh. Abstract
the fluid from the eyes.
Rub well into icons,
perfuming those milky
ludic globes. Spread
it as a carpet for
the lovelorn – their
digitalis. Conflict
is the balm of reason –
abstract, gratuitous,
baroque – as this.
Sunset comes with
multiple warnings,
filling the redolent
body with salmon.
And this labor.
The name of the beloved
may suddenly appear
as welts on that
forcibly externalized
internal skin, say “Mary”
or “Harry” or “Larry,”
a lighter whitish-red,
almost pussy ; the discourse
suddenly twangs.
The candle steps out
from behind the eyes,
reveals itself to be
a candle. This is what I mean
by “self as destroyer.”
“Could you just
scoot over a little
bit I don’t have
enough room”
“I have a mean streak
of musicality.”
To make a jailbreak
of flesh, clasp
the larva till it hardens
and tributaries crackle
up. If you are still
confined by the form,
consider the pleasure
of the otters. Your
pheonix will transmogrify
as other sorts of plumage
that may well singe
in sun, waves of heat
rising to begin
disintegration (a kind
of unfolding).
If you are still confused
by the form, invoke
its creator, its secret
prey. Jolly with
composition, she
has stretched
her lower lip up
over her head, and
the lyres (whipped
by a freak wind)’re all
abloom with
this (red light. dis-
tract) caco-
phany.
This country belongs to jackals. They take my breath away.
Who needs a body in this kind of environment?
They’ll only consume it.
Jordan “Blogman” Davis, the only one to respond to my call for questions!, writes:
Nada: vis a vis ornament. Have you read Mary Karr’s attack on ornamental poetics, mainly Ashbery and Merrill as I recall, that ran in Parnassus back before she became Stephen King’s Favorite Memoirist? I guess I don’t think of ornament as a gendered attitude, but isn’t that what everything from The Yellow Wallpaper on has been beating into our thick routines? that the apparently trivial details are the handholds, the judo leverage. What does that mean, I don’t know. I think I learned everything I know about martial arts from Charles Schultz (and Susan M., come to think of it). Anyway I’ve been thinking about that quality that you’re pointing at, and it keeps coming back to me in a negative definition, i.e. including material extraneous to the structure, embellishment, etc — which contradicts my own understanding of this quality, which is to take the most direct existing route to whatever emotion it is I’m following.. to create a filament that loops and coils to give off light, magnetic energy etc.. (blah blah Breton blah blah Soupault blah blah) which may look baroque and in a vacuum, fair enough. And fragile. Not that I can protect anything by changing its name, but the whole ‘ornament’ category sounds a lot more decadent than anything I’d know how to defend. Unless all this ornament is just a decoy, and I’m putting it out to divert attention from a real story, which now that I think of it (I’ve been using that phrase a LOT lately) may be just what I’ve done. So what’s the question. The question is, have you read Mary Karr against Ornament, as printed in Parnassus back when? xo, J
Jordan, I haven’t read the Mary Karr. I don’t think I’ve ever read Parnassus that I can remember. I’ve been so ghettoized in the inno-po world for so long that, well, I don’t think I’ve even ever read an issue of Fence all the way through. Not saying this with any kind of braggadocio, rather admitting the mind-forged manacles of my own cultural lexicon. So that answers your basic question, however abruptly. But to get to what is really interesting in your missal above, that beautiful description of the process of making things (poems) manifest themselves… I was reading today an article about Alan Watts, from which (tho it’s admittedly sorta half-baked)I quote briefly here:
Watts viewed the body as nothing less than a particular flowering of the Universe, frequently stating “You did not come into this universe, you grew out of it, like a leaf on a tree.”… of course the implications are gigantic, as our whole social and economic structure is based on the illusion that float around inside our heads and are “confronted with a world of alien objects,” that we don’t belong here, that we’re a mistake.
If we transpose Watts’ idea onto the body of the poem, the negative idea of ornament as extraneous unnecessary embellishment evaporates. That is, poems are not abstracted out of the world but are of the world (c.f. my letter to Brenda about the ornamental quality of the many things that can hang off a tree — apples, dewdrops — and her response) (cf also what is culture? what is nature? termite hill? skyscraper? what’s the diff? why do we loathe ourselves so?) (cf also a naked body — even naked we’re decorated, right? and our “parts” are hardly useless embellishments. I’m really talking about SUFFICIENTLY CAPTIVATING FORM) . And therefore, there are no objects (words) alien to a poem’s *potential* [an important qualification — and duchampian at heart — that is, ANYTHING can be material for art] microcosmic universe. However, if the objective, in making a poem, is to create or follow or trace back or spin out a particular emotional (or rhythmic?) filament (and I agree that it is), and to limn or fabricate its inherently necessary-to-its-being loops and coils and tendrils, then surely there are words, phrases, grammatical constructions, lineations and phonic patterns that either do or do not contribute to said creation or following or tracing back or spinning out. And that’s why we have editing. And that’s one reason why certain poems do not for certain readers allow more than a glimpse (if that) of that luminosity you allude to. Of course, those very impediments can also be part of what makes the poem compelling. Let me always admit impediments!
But I ask you all, whence the “decadent” association with ornament? And isn’t it egregious? There is no human culture whose members do not decorate themselves and their surroundings. Even the puritans had their buckles, did they not? I am in the possession of a zen priest’s summer over-kimono — it’s black and sheer like a negligee. As a child, did you or did you not play dress-up? So why, why, why do we punish ourselves for something we seem to be hard-wired into doing, namely manipulating the forms of our selves and surroundings into shapes that please and stimulate us?
It’s true that ornament may be the wrong word for what I’m talking about, too. I may have chosen it for the sake of polemic, because I was feeling limited by something or someone and I don’t like that feeling. It makes me want to argue, kick out, and ululate.
I don’t know if ornament “divert[s] attention” from the “real story.” Couldn’t ornament actually be the real story? Would there be any art(ifice) in that real story, if it could be proven to exist? At any rate, I don’t think poetry is about a real story. Do you? If you were really hot for the real story, wouldn’t you be doing something else?
Here are some more “think” questions:
Are anklets extraneous to a kathakali dancer?
Or false eyelashes to a drag queen?
Wouldn’t we all be less ornamented if we had no names?
Isn’t language itself the ultimate ornament?
Can you imagine yourself living inside a perfect white box?
Aren’t even “whiteness” and “boxiness” decorative qualities in contrast with NOTHINGNESS?
I’m feeling all heady with abstractions. Thank you for the question, Jordan. Do you have a copy of that Parnassus you could lend me (or as my students say “borrow me”)? More fuel for the polemic is (as the Japanese say) also good.
It’s my birthday in one hour and one minute!
I love Laura Elrick’s tough, frustrated poem in The Poker.
Other things I have been reading lately that I really like:
Nick Piombino’s Theoretical Objects (awesomely observant & permissive)
Clare Pollard’s Bedtime (really adept audenesque rhymes that just miss being doggerel!)
Sparrow’s Yes, You ARE a Revolutionary(hee. hoo.)
Jules Boykoff’s poems (the ones beginning with lines from other contempoets)in the new Combo
Barbara Cole’s poem in the new Combo
Alexei Kruchenykh’s Suicide Circus (inventor of ZAUM! — trans. Jack Hirschman)
It’s 3 in the morning! I drank too much black sesame-flavored tapioca tea in Flushing. Must try to sleep. And perhaps, just perhaps, I will get around to talking about some the works I just listed.
But I feel like answering some questions.
I will take questions now.
Oyasumi nasai!
[this poem — except for the two lists — is supposed to be in three-line stanzas]
FANCIER
As with a yellowish couple
sanpaku green Hypnoscheinwerfern
one radiates. It wishes only my energy —
it to require they suddenly sometimes,
like a demandingly plaintive kid speech,
which why ask? why? why?
if it wishes an activity or
wet wet with food with the place,
cuddle-vermischt.
Sometimes, if I make house things,
I do not feel you as I’m, which plays a role,
this it’s really I comète besprinkling
or the counter wiping off. I am another woman
cleaning-ram. Having Dante is an attractive doofus, smiles,
which rubs upward and prancing for the food? Food? more more food?
smiles sniffle to mine red it at lips, purrs.
Its fur is from clay/tone differently brother’s
smoothes its deeply with a grey flaumigen undercoat.
The separate gland oil gives it the places clumpy.
During it assied on me it smiles itself and my fingers licks:
lick if you lick lick, grignotent, gnaw on gnaw on, lick.
It shifts, it is, under the charm of
something kinetics or buglike
with much effort.
dante is divine
dante is lost
dante is off again
dante is back
dante is born
dante is apprehended by commander pyre of the tsars’ own scarlet wraiths
dante is an interesting and articulate guest on radio and tv
dante is guided through hell and purgatory by virgil and by beatrice through heaven
dante is really very popular
dante is the real deal
dante is very frightened and nervous by virgil’s presence as you can tell by his response towards virgil saying “have pity on me
dante is at the gate of purgatory proper
dante is the closest thing to an answer
dante is joyfully reunited with beatrice
dante is known for peopling the comedy with his acquaintances
dante is an agile and quick athlete
dante is sitting on the floor
dante is trying to reach his boss on the phone
dante is full of fear as he enters the gloomy halls of the inferno
dante is also able to probe the minds of others
dante is 290 pounds and he’s 6’4″
dante is the darling of my life
dante is my spiritual food
dante is a great poet
dante is one star in the entertainment business who doesn’t need a press agent to hype his many accomplishments
dante is full of life and full of himself sometimes
Nemo has that willfulness and insolence
which extends outside, the Lord of blackening.
This nervous intelligence. Is presented I to consider to him of Skull.
If you stated yourselves to contradict GET DOWN you,
Dante craven narrows, but Nemo will neglects me simply,
activity of wild brilliant force on its face
I found, by playing the its lady of cleaning,
looking at window on the gray neu-angekommene coolness,
“of which things koestliche thinking we do have to eat this case?
and presenting, to ask around Gary,
“that things koestliche became to want you to eat you this case?”
… claustro-coziness the house.
Are the cats, like a matter of writing,
folded back and kitsch, right-hand side?
Here, kitschy, kitschy.
Awaking me the night for kibbles, sleeping on my head,
creating horrible stinks. But they not, as so much of what I meet in this world,
incur in me the resentment, the weariness, agitation, or violence.
Nemo has a certain manner of operation on those appears like
“herumspringendes”– he’s that a goat. I note that I think sometimes the goat of him
like left milkless, a child of Lucifer and me.
Herumspringen normally precisely accompanies Quietschen
by a chirrup or Teenybaby mew, to exceed. When it isn’t with that ardor,
he is restive added drug, excited. It was perforated.
It wanted to expire in Hallway, therefore I, said OKAY,
let’s expires in Hallway. It schnueffelte approximately courageously to be,
when another housing opened with door,
however ran of return him more terrified, mewing,
with our door, and raye, left return inside.
Its fragile névroses are exact at me.
Is it indeed my child? mine trusts it?
or a certain extrusion of me? Ne-MOIS. of holy Karneval person,
who belongs to Nada, household carnivore.
Two moistens syllables, which shift the mouth grimace,
which became at an astonishment zero stretch outside. Smoothes
the gameness, light of my living piece: iranai of ANIMONATEN ireba of anataga.
nemo is nifty
nemo is to improve the life long learning
nemo is an extendible stellar dynamics toolbox
nemo is a stellar dynamics toolbox for users as well as pro
nemo is the ideal forum for musicians
nemo is designed to improve the quality of life for anyone with
nemo is not digesting squid that he has eaten
nemo is based on a concept of concentrated and localizated reinforcement
nemo is exciting
nemo is the star of a new book bearing his name
nemo is a lightweight
nemo is latijn voor ‘niemand’
nemo is gecastreerd
nemo is quite the snuggle bunny
nemo is as astonishing now as when first published
nemo is incisive commentary on the world we live in today
nemo is where you want to be
nemo is a young new yorker who is carried off by a giant blimp to slumberland
nemo is so awesome
The need something I don’t, Has I they my society animal, my possession,
my possessed animal of the society prance of the high continuous,
unsheathed crazy firm view the claw.
Add little smeared sign a D, in order to go well to the Daemon.
Dante likes wallow in my newspaper and steals my luminous ray of the attention.
Its very large haarigen hulk lolls in the sides,
its ears withdraw slightly and anticipate GET DOWN
It looks at also assured however unlenksam. It thus does not become
that lunk it shifted, maintenance me me that in it him petting,
all distorts it manner like a Russian hat mussed and fluffed.
Its halls undercoat gray ends in wispy clouds,
hanging far far its back or from the nose.
Nemo is worse. If the cry in him or me refuse something with him —
he disappears and the bullies his brother. He’ll persecutes it with howling
much mutual and of the groups of the skin of the flight.
Dante never does this in Nemo, although it is larger as much.
Both have gelatinous a mullido underhanging additional belly,
like lions or NANDI (cows with sagradas) of the zoological gardens.
The question is to know how I can be everywhere open to turbulences
of the worlds poetischen of others. Or need which I include/understand even of them
like turbulences. But it is, like I feel it.
Your breath has this odor, of Saeugetieres (animal fleischfressendes)
and the ocean. Your heads, particularly in the place behind the ear,
in which them softer fur rises together in two directions in a top, odor like the cocoa.
This whole conversation “of the widening of the field.” What arrives,
if the field receives thus, you extended don’t would like or lives inside
to fold you more him? Wide field = a kind attacks territorial. Masculine marauders.
A head of cats is right the just format in order to seize, as a orange or a breast
of the smallish. Part of great design of nature’s? Task continuously to as you we it
is going to die and of like my cats has breath. Their nervousness.
I watch the breath of Dante to move in its body like He hairs.
There’s a point on its voluminosa belly that increases, scatterers,
increases. The bands deform a po ‘, radically when it moves more completely.
Gary releases the keyboard keys, the mouse. Radar of the ears of Dante
approximately in nature. Dante is “simple”. I mean, purrs him if him straight lines
sight with him or, if you handle to seize your capacity, to bring him.
Nemo which, purr not always deigning each proud occasion, however there subtle,
time, when it me with desperate to require clay lunges, for on my box finding
or its head in my hair strong to confuse, its pure, almost violent one.
Dante is very sensitive to my “strange” action.
I passed by a phase to carry a Chinese mask of pig of character of animation around the house while dancing around an extravagant manner of the song length to Maria Callas.
Dante would function until me and entreatingly with eyes full with the timid concern
would look at me. Which connection could be there between these “portals”
and “the vortices of the poetic worlds of others”?
And why am I so tilted to penetrate one but not the other?
One of my first sexual experiments was with sticking.
The cats are my harem, my hysterical odalisques. hold you luminous I’m. naked
your asshole of small smooches, smaller than dimes, like a fraction of penny foreign coin.
Otohime 