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Issue 10 - A Journal of Letters and Life
Skeuromorph Detective (Continued from Cybercorpse # 9)
by Julian Semilian
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These lines purloined directly from my computer's hard drive!
      And then, Thea, yes, Thea, how would they find out about Thea? She only came at night driving her 76 Impala through the core of the ghetto I'd told her to avoid, Thea, arms raised to the light source, visage same, this is a tights ad, an ad for Hades Hose, in the foreground, twirling so as to hoist up her skirt against gravity by the centrifugal force of an a la Monroe twirl and present us with the lovely coruscation of gams, Candida's, the light reflexive of the hose glimmers reflected on her visage in coruscating splendor, while the disgruntled male's unshaven visage unglows in the shadows. He is perusing himself in the mirror, neck downcast as though in shame; next to him, shimmering under the sienna fawn of candelabras, the unmade bed, on which, if you inspect carefully, you'll see a black cat; his presence conveys, I am never mistaken in this medium of the message: what have I done to be thus left behind? And he wears stockings, garter belts and stockings! Though his face is in the shadows, it's clear that face is my face. How could they have found out? Unless they were spying on me. Thea had disappeared two days earlier. This is what happened, I might as well tell you. I don't know what you'll think of me now but I have to tell you. Thea and I spat a little ire at each other, so to speak. She hates my cat! She gave me an ultimatum, either you get rid of the cat or I leave. There I was, firmly secured to the bed posts, she had shown up earlier and cooked dinner, she was wearing the black silk stockings I had bought her, I mean she showed up ready to cook dinner and dressed like that, these stockings under the long black skirt she wielded with such force, she made me feel the garter belts by taking my hand and placing my fingers against it when I kissed her when she first came in, and me intoxicated with rapturous gliding across fields of anticipation of contact with nebulously mantled lower limbs, she was smoldering in her melanoid oblivion stance, into which I was plunging, oh, your stockings of blended snakes! I plunged the "binarity of my knees" before her and gazed up in adoration of her tyrannical allure. She motivated her long wrap to collapse like an army. "O my Queen of Diaphany! Your tyrannical lower limb nebulae are the metric which can be applied directly to happiness!", I hissed in adoration, anyway I won't bore you with everything that occurred between us, it would be impossible anyway, solely a gathering of fragments, a suctioning of sections, I sport doubts in my skills of hand to hand description, Rimbaud would have forbidden it anyway, but she was the Queen-Bewitcher bedighted in tyrannical allure and vestments he speaks of, being of legendary elegance, she who may consent to whisper what she knows and what we'll never find out, she was suddenly as though born of Rimbaud, no, she was a transfigured Rimbaud for me alone to worship, Rimbaud whom I've always craved to worship, and I could only aspire to a destiny of being her lifetime slave, suddenly I was secured to the bedposts, and just before that she breathed a haze of black silk stockings on my legs, oh I can't deny it, I watched her do it, it was divine, "my stockings are getaways from abduction by chronological forge", I murmured, "undulations into an aurora where you might throttle me", I was plunging into the destinal foreboding of garter belts and she was a Gaudi goddess sprinkling me with lovely rivulets regarding the allure of my lamellated contours against the gloaming, and then my black cat Sabrina hops on the bed and nuzzles herself against my stockings and starts purring. "Until the sabrinas at the barriers of enigma surprise you without your stockings." This line of lovely verse came to me for no apparent reason I could discern and I smiled till it thunderbolted on me I was too bound to write it down. And I demanded she untie me so I could write it down. This erupts her ire, and she demands that I kill the cat. She will untie me if I kill the cat as a sacrifice to her. I am aghast on account of her demand, as she had in the past demonstrated an erotic affection for the cat. But now she re-demands I kill the cat as a sacrifice to her, she would love the fur for a collar, she purrs, because don't I call her my goddess? And I refuse categorically, and here I must give myself credit for refusing categorically while entirely at her mercy, a prisoner of this plunge into the rigors of the ecstatic, and still, I refused, while drowning cavalierly in the ecstatic storm of her displeasure, I refused, (not the tedious te deums of the propitiatory for me! I wished to shout but didn't on account of her challenge with the high-wire of my lexicon), and I demanded in the name of the muse of poetry that she untie me so that I could write down this line and she wants to know what the line is, such an entrancing line making itself apparent to me more than likely because I refused propitiation, the poet as you know is the antagonist of the propitiator, I will not reveal the line! I shout. She says if I killed the cat (and how well you know that at my core beats a cat!) she would marry me, which she made me beg her for the day before and then she said maybe. Ok, so I bend a little and opt for giving the cat away to a sympathetic friend, I told you about Renata in rapturous oneirics en quotes, for sure she would take pity on it and adopt it and I could visit her there, Renata only lives a few blocks away, but she insists I kill Sabrina. If you really love me, you'll kill the cat. Sacrifice her for me. I refuse, we hiss, and though the means by which the actual sacrifice is to be carried out are never discussed, she suggests we do it while we're cross-dressed, and then suddenly she storms out, and there I am firmly secured to the bed posts and wearing stockings.

Image by Burnell Yow and the Digital Exquisite Corpse Project

      For a while I find this enrapturing, I've been hopelessly plunged into the river of delight, but for sure she will return, the cat was a total ruse to enrapture me, she only wishes to enrapture me even more by this thunderous storming out and abandoning me secured to the bed posts like that, the stockings felt as though I was abducted by the transgressive mystery of obsidian ballerinas, I didn't even attempt to squirm out of the binds for fear she would return to find me free (free!!!) and thus disrupting her aims; and what would those be? A few nights earlier she was sleeping, I was twisting and turning in bed because I couldn't sleep because I was so angry with her and was meditating on leaving her because she had flirted with a young boy at the party she had at her house for the Bartholdy String Quartet after their show, a young boy I might ass, I mean add I mean, the "s" is right next to the "d" and I wasn't looking at the keyboard, a young ballet dancer I thought for an instant it might be nice for us to share, only for an instant and didn't think about it again, only because I imagined she would have liked it, and the moon was full and its light cast itself pale on her face, I can't figure how I could discern her face so clearly solely by the light of the moon, it was a face I had never seen before, she was the androgynous Indra, well, I am not sure it was Indra, but a figure from an Indian landscape of mythology that you've spotted in reproductions and though I wished to leave her, something I was seriously meditating on, something I had actually made up my mind on, she seemed like Indra, who is androgynous, didn't it ever occur to you how androgynous these Indian figures look even when the title says these deities are male, that's how she looked backlit by the moonlight, and it occurred to me that if I left her I would be leaving a god, or a goddess, whom I am supposed to serve and worship and by leaving I would only be bringing a curse on myself like a backslider in faith, an infidel, that so what if she flirted with the young boy, it was my own constriction I got jealous, after all it is me she slept with afterwards even though I had to go home and wait for her to call me when she finally got him to leave, it was me not him she was sleeping with, and I looked at her, she was Indra, an Indian deity sitting on a cloud surrounded by servants and lovers and worshippers and perhaps there was no separation between them, perhaps I had entered a course in obedience, supplicancy, veritable service, because what good is service as commodity, nothing but the fulfilling of an obligation, transgression outfitted with a chastity belt, not the ecstatic trance of supplication before the goddess you worship; that perhaps the tricky issue was the fact of your outmoded democracy (which is no more than demographics, the approximation of the human being), "The more readily he recognizes his own needs in the images of need proposed by the dominant system, the less he understands his own existence and his own desires", where is the freedom to obey the lover you worship, the ecstatic commitment of supplication which you despise in principle, but in fact it is only so because you are committed to the desiccated balletics of restriction, permanent position in diorama, frozen pose in the plaza, tenure in the temple of self- disgust, and suddenly here I was, she was goddess Indra teaching me the meaning of forgotten arts, such as irrational obedience, ecstatic suplicance, diaphanous idolatry, magic, these very elements of hyper-Fragonard erotica, erotica that transcends the concrete the quotidian is composed of, I was being trained to, I had been chosen to be trained for a higher calling, no longer the pedestrian pedagogue merely straining for the alabaster entrancement of sudden abandon to the beckoning burst of the vajra violin, I was being tested for a master in the sudden abandon of the beckoning burst of the vajra violin, Leila Ferraz's perpetual encounters and ancient recognitions and Evening Gypsy legs were erupting at my core as a beam of light poised from her forehead like a viper's tongue glimmered like a mandorla: "Magic is the cultivator of the very desire that makes it beyond good and evil' in a sphere belonging to enchantment and violation - the feeling (or rather sensation) of power that transforms what I have into what I am, hurling me against everything that seems to obstruct my self-movement", and still, here I was, could I forgive myself, giving in to my reluctance, withdrawing into my sorry state of concretized dignification, me abandoning her? No I was giving her reasons to abandon me by my disobedience to the task itself, yes I realized now I had judged her according to the restricted motions of the quotidian, that I had been chosen to transcend its limitations and here I was retreating! And I realized that I had judged her yet again, told myself she couldn't possibly be Indra, that it was only some poetic illusion, (only some poetic delusion! I could stab myself for that!) I had given in, without even realizing it, to the standards of the quotidian masquerade, to the rule of the utilitarian order simply because she was such a premature ejaculator! One touch Emerald, one touch to the underside of her tiny penis and she would squirt! She commands me to run the tip of my tongue on its underside and splash, a faceful of come. A faceful, I'm exaggerating here, it was merely a tiny squirt and she'd shriek like a rhesus. I know, I know what you're thinking, that she's abusing me and it's undignified, that I am the fool of a con, but you can't deny the desperate pleasure I feel; I mean certainly I wouldn't go to the office and brag, I couldn't hang out with the guys' and brag, I couldn't express this in conversation with my boss Das Goat (I don't recall if I ever mentioned him to you, but I will if I didn't), so what posture could I take, what societally approved value could I adopt to paint my eidolon in? (As I mentioned, the masculine disorder is not entrancing to me.) Except, of course, fulfillment. Yes, fulfillment. My whole being vibrated and I can't say it was merely pleasure' the way pleasure is undignified through democratized pornography, why is pleasure' wrong? Yes, my entire being vibrated with fulfillment as though all aspects of the universe were contributing instruments to a symphony of joy and abandon being played inside me. "I am not merely one who approximates pungencies!", I wanted to shout in submission in order to be forgiven. "Not even yet a murderer of syndromes! I will be the myrmidon in your conquests", I muttered with glottis in flames. Yellow smoke swelled out of my vampirically costumed melodramas, in intonation of gazals to her majestic turbulence.

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