Thirteen Books

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“In short, we think that one cannot write sufficiently in the name of an outside. The outside has no image, no signification, no subjectivity. The book as assemblage with the outside, against the book as image of the world. A rhizome-book, not a dichotomous, pivotal, or fascicular book.” (Deleuze & Guatarri – A Thousand Plateaus)

Unbearable, like fingernails on a black board
You flaunt yourself in front of me and tell me,
“Check out my books if you want.”
I check you out like the exhibit you are:
A Modigliani painting lacking eyes to see.

You point towards your bookshelf on which
a collection of dust abides with your uncaring motherhood.
I look through them: novels about follies and pieces and children,
wicked laughter exudes like puss from your callous chest.
Your breaths of ice chill the room; you dim the lights.

I touch Mr. Vertigo and slide my fingers on the spine of Melancholy Whores.
You become excited and tremble in bed, moved by an unseen force
like a leaf shivering to the breeze of autumn.
The Orange Girl. Fiery strands of hair don’t escape my sight,
You undress; your impeccable skin, new, like mountaintop snow.

I remain next to the bookshelf as you relish in your parade.
Tender Buttons and The Picture of Dorian Gray;
Legs move sideways and open up like transgressive fiction:
American Psycho next to The Story of the Eye and
A small tissue separates them, The Waste Land.

You stand up, a column built out of layers of white marble
Topples sideways into the darkness and leaks pongy
coffee-concentrated piss along the way.
Farewell Waltz. Should I follow? The Moral Animal.
You laugh again, but this time absently, yet louder; it echoes in your womb.

I’m alone now, a child in a womb, and conquered by
a fear of being what these books are: dead.
Like an anal child uttering nonsense: in no inno se n inn no se ne inno sen se innosense.
Innocence. The Art of Keeping Cool and where are you to be found?
Only puss and piss comes out of you.

You come back crippled and weak, your columns
broken and dripping blood and you fall on me as if I’m your careless mason.
Frail between my arms like a boiled carrot, you look towards Hamra Noir and
caress me as you reach out to it like a frog’s tongue.
It falls and images capture us as they leap like holograms from the book.

You hold on tighter and tighter to make it right, but
coins blind your eyes and I untangle you from my body. Oedipus the King
A scene from an ancient tragedy which we’ve memorized and shall perform.
I place you on your wooden bed, naked as a lamb, and hope that
the spirit of lightness makes us laugh at tragic plays and tragic wakes.

The next morning we wake up with saline eyes and sticky bodies
wishing we had just read Bukowski.

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