I have wanted for some tim . .
.
. Areya kiddin me
You have wanted
when have you wanted anything
it wasnt a thing he wanted
he had sheaves of written pages
titled by dates he didnt title anything
anif he did it was rare
the pages were helter skelter
stored in more places than he dare think about
he wanted them gathered in
chronological order but he rather devote his time to crafting more than ordering indexing their content
no arrangement Oops he almost Freudianly fraudulently wrote arraignment he would
be found guilty of voluntary disorder possibly
chaos
nothing gets anything done like
capitulation ceding defeat
but maybe in short spurts
NO!
Shaddup Henry
NO!
Henry Miller his ceaseless harrasser he didnt misspell it harassment is more
harassing if its spelled wrong harrasser
Henry prodded him
I have a Mudder
a
Fadder
and
a Prodder
Henry spat NO! in his face and reminded
him of his words
There was nothing I wished to do which I could just as well not do. & he was also fond of Henrys I had no need of God than he had need of me, and
if there were one, I often said to myself, I would meet him calmly and spit in
his face.
Henry was a spitter
he imagined a nonexistent God to
Henry and a nonexistent he to Henry standing side by side with spittle on their
faces
it humoured him perhaps more than
it should have
he couldnt speak for Godhe wouldnt
speak for anyone that was their jobto
stand up on their hind legs but had Henry spat in
his face hed be getting off his back picking himself up out of the dirt
he didnt
care if Henry could get him laid by all the angels an whores in Heaven or wherever Henry was hanging out now
Millers writing goaded him
he
made him ashamed when he didnt have a pen and paper in hand ashamed that he didnt
have a woman in his arms or on all fours in bed ashamed that he may have eaten his
food and not taking the time to taste it taste the wine ashamed that he wasnt drunk or stoned ashamed
that his lungs werent bigger to breathe deeper to smell more to embrace odours
and scents and aromas ashamed of living
because he couldnt live it more time and
life wasting ashamed because Miller
wasted life too because it would kill us
if we tried in the blink of the eye
he supposed Miller seduced him he and Anais Nin
Anais seduced him first
it was a
heady imagined menage de trois
he was ripe for seduction he ached for it
he was growing weary of seducing
when he kissed Anais like sipping a goblet of red wine his head
engulfed in the fragrant vapours his
tongue lost searching turning like a fish spawningbursting in soon-death
its sex and eggs gushing out in the clear water onto the pebbled bed blood milking twisting like ribbon in the quiet
current its body dying cell by cell
quelling the innate circle of living
he was incited by excess
distillation he wrote
I simply say what I think
having said so I think of it no
longer
the thought I evacuate makes room for more
my brain like my bowels and bladder
and lungs and heart
have to be emptied to be filled
to be emptied an on anon
until death empties me completely
an finally with a warm grateful spasm and squeeze
where in my bed on the floor in the earth
will gush the last vestige of
what I truly was
and I I will sorely miss not being able to sit
among my things like a small curious child
to sort and pull through them
discovering again trembling at my treasures
my funk and fuck
in them there will be my happiness and
sorrow and horror
maybe my children will have the courage
to look through them
smell the fragrances inside their odour
find and feel the small precious
stones in the surly muck
maybe
maybe if their eyes didnt betray
them
their senses and nerves
steeled not faint
and have a strong gut
a distillation
takes a very strong gut
2350, Monday,
20 1. 92
1206, Thursday,
1 10. 20
