Adaptions

1 February 2017

Pornography involves an abstraction of human intercourse in which the self is reduced to its formal elements. — Angela Carter


The day before we move in together I’m reading Joan Didion in your bed, which is now ours I guess. She is writing about biker gangs and the movies that depict them: Peter Fonda tearing open a dress, a woman, a waitress. He reaches the end of the film with nothing to say. She describes how they gangbang a woman. A pile of sentences. Gangbang. The word sinks from my head through my gut to my cunt where it tingles. I watch a woman get ploughed, obviously — all poetry is porn; calculated intimacy and brutal indecency, always performed for someone to see. We fuck until we’re a soft pool in the centre of this structure where we love each other, and I guess, we now live. It’s hard to justify caesuras when I’m seeping like this, like sap or lukewarm toffee and a pain in soft teeth. So on the cusp of domesticity, I sink beneath the shape of my trope into the warm mess of another. Unique feelings always evolve to hard clichés. But how to say it — the words, the building, the body. Where’s the tenderness in architecture?

The trip and me, Joan the day before, I lay naked in bed. He wrote this film describing them: Peter Fonda, a woman, not a waitress or something. He described how fascinating he was: understand the sentences. It stung. My master, legs and head. I have some pornography, a woman who apparently ploughed – but poetry is porn; cruel and despicable acts, always someone looked. Those are good mouths or bellies or rocket warmth or blood vessels, which make caesuras difficult to justify. So I decided to sink under the actual family. Produce cliché. We are, we love each other, how good, and I live, in the middle of the pond. I am not God but I’m building obedience. Architecture is tenderness.

John and me naked in bed before traveling. His film, Peter Fonda, a woman writes anything he said. Of course, he remarked, how interesting. This expansion. Lord of the head and legs. But poetry is always porn; cruel actions and say – I have some fucking woman’s leg! Caesuras are hard, stomach is soft, and heats the mouth of the vascular missiles. So I decided to put down roots in a family. The production clichés in the middle of the lake. How good we are: we love each other and live (a reference to obey God’s building). Mayan architecture.

 


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