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new version of shame (saturday)

Kultura

It’s a milkshake dream. Chocolate chunks in a pool of milk. What will prevail upon the tongue when human time is disappearing from the universe? And so the large self is proud of no-nation. They are all little shits. I’m a chain. A chain around grotesque nipples. I myself did love, did leave a trivial self. A defaced coin in the pocket of a tramp.

when I was born
when I was born
my face was bruised
was bruised
with commands

what is forbidden is broken, a token
self resorted, a restored elf
in hiding, in hiding a forbidden self
is resorted, I live because I love
and in loving stay to bleed.

When the self is trampled, which is not the same as dead, there is a dance beneath the world tree. Lock arms and swing, grasp and let go. Shame is the beginning of wisdom. Shame is the body. Shame is the face sinking back into the face. And so dance, and in so doing, more than dance. And love. And. And live in an unknown country.

better get out
before
it’s too late
better open
the door
better bake a new loaf

better
invesistigate
your mind/body problem

better rethink
your country

better make sounds underwater
to find out what’s close to you

bent over, doubled over, doubled in, the death
sentence is where we’re going.

Images exist, near the eye. I exist
where the muscle contracts. Near
the eye where the muscle contracts.

What exists in the scenes, between the scenes, between
the lines, between the lies? What exists? What exists?

What micro and macro invasions
hold our eyes, the grave is plain white, plain white
bread flaked into a gurgling sink, a gurgling grave,
held open to the grave, held open to the sink.

Held open, and let in, what light, plain
white, death white, what light is let in.

she wouldn’t open
the door, I asked
her to open
the door, no one
is at the door she said
she said the door
is already open
but no one
is at the door
and all our cultural
credit is nits

We’re breaking down, breaking apart to break in. We’ve come for you. We’ve opened the door. The door is open. No one is at the door and no one will answer.

Who is taken across in the beautiful blur? Who pries open the intensity of the moment? No one is the blind light. Deforested, who sings?

The classification of experience is scened, scanned, humiliated. Classification is muddy writing. Or seen from the backside, we are eaten by light. Daylight reveals the deathmask.

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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

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