from Cybercorpse # 9)
by Julian Semilian
purloined directly from my computer's hard drive!
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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