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Although I Sweeten Myself with Sugar My hands filled with sugar (a new being? lucky?) I met him along the railroad tracks watching over his ruddy goats HOW DO YOU DO? DID YOU SLEEP WELL? good morning I MEAN CAN’T YOU SEE IT’S STILL NIGHT the DAYS have turned to grass and GRASS isn’t good for these animals any longer I’ve brought you sugar the goats bleat whenever they feel like it their bleating has stopped – in goat language this is called FREEDOM – I’m about to experience the sensation that I’ve DISCOVERED DOCILE SOUNDS IN MY LARYNX that won’t cause me trouble B A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A H Dear mr. goatherd I’ve brought you sugar I reach out my hand – I don’t know why it’s said THIS WAY when in FACT the movement is made with the root fastened between shoulder blade and breast WHICH breast is BIGGER: it’s learned to sing and TO TALK: NURSING this other condition scares it depresses it leads it to droop it wishes IT HAD eyes to scope out temptations UNDERNEATH clothes although I sweeten myself with sugar I’M ONE OF THOSE WHO DON’T DO a lot of good for the REPRESENTATIVE ORGANS now for INSTANCE grass grown on THIGHS is poisonous to goats THAT’S WHY I reach out my hand filled with sugar DEAR MR. goatherd TASTE it for YOURSELF (meanwhile) the indifferent or CAPABLE goats have stopped the freight train at the railroad museum where the railroad clerk MR. SCOW was celebrating his WEDDING VOWS they were sitting DUMBFOUNDED wearing IN PERPETUITY kaleidoscopic CARDBOARD flowers attached with SAFETY PINS to THE CIRCUMFERENCE OF THEIR HEARTS WHEE WHEE WHEE WHEE WHEE WHEE WHEE WHEE WHEE WHEE HEY HEY WHEE COME ON HEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY (a SOLDIER escaped from his UNIT was trying to remedy the error) LET’S GET A MOVE ON/farther ahead it’s tHERE/ the wedding OF dead goats WE GONNA MAKE choice VITTLES DEAR MR. GOATHERD the museum’s freight train is like a kind of LOVE you’ve given up waiting for (having a TOTALLY different OBJECTIVE THAN killing goats) (the goats were too greedy) B A A A A A A A A A A A A A A H (AFTER ALL THEY can live without being GOATS) NO ONE will hold their FREEDOM up to ridicule good morning mr. goatherd CAN’T you (EVEN) see IT’S MORNING I’ll take pains to believe that the NOISES AND THE BLOOD enveloping us will give FREE REIN to a new relation between you and me (my hands filled with sugar I’ll never be HUNGRY or THIRSTY) Good morning mr. goatherd the kid hawking the morning papers has spread the news everywhere in town ALREADY WE’RE STARS
translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Antuza Genescu
These Are Me and I’ve Become My Own Friend
Should I do introductions? this is the railroad these the arms these the legs this is the see-through dress excited to make its getaway from the body ALSO I HAD a newly furnished head I set it ASIDE to bring it to its senses I turned it over to see its GREEN pinky-pink buttocks also I had a bouquet of fine features two PER MUSCLE in the style of the woman who sells absorbent cotton and tampons maybe I also should have something clear favorite conclusive (like a shoulder with a grain de beauté that immediately could realize if it were lied to about spring’s arrival wafting Parisian perfumes) these are FINGERS (which my mother always counted until I began to tell her MAMA THERE ARE 10 OF THEM AND THEY STILL OBEY ME now they glissando because they’ve grown up and need to move mysteriously otherwise going to other fingers’ parties seems pointless) THIS IS SHAME a silken arithmetic so young it doesn’t really get it I let it play upon my body and it pushed in close happy and not really used to such sophisticated names WHO asked it WHY this is the train a sort OF drawer where I keep all manner of bodies to put it bluntly these are me and I’ve become my own friend
translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Antuza Genescu
I’m a Good Girl Helpful and Pretty
today’s monday if I scream half the day away soon it’ll be tuesday tuesday’s pointless like a married lover with two children for whom morning’s the most baffling season because it derives from woman (that physical body in fiery motion) shipwrecked between good and evil where night reaches its blackest compass where a natural way of feeling engenders itself look what reality does on wednesday: I grab my head in my two hands toss it up like a pretzel (the history of this movement can be reproduced with forceps) thursday’s a lot like confronting the sperm tide (the immobile poster has accomplished this in america) GOOD EVENING SIR IF YOU DON’T MIND Kindly cOME before friday friday’s always 85% finish 15% start (the clock stopped) saturday’s transparent (intestines look like subway trains where mannequins saunter through with curlers in their hair) CHAMPAIGN FOR THE LITTLE GIRLS WITH AN I.D. FOR THOSE WITHOUT I.D.S EXERCISES IN MILK darling what are you looking for in my left lung come down wombwards you can sleep/dream as long as you wish until time’s up it’ll be quite a while still I won’t tell the others because on sunday I’m a good girl helpful and pretty
translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Antuza Genescu
It’s Raining Outside. Outside Is Inside
I was a suicide before I was born I call myself the little girl who lives between two parrots (puffed up with blood – males? – after combat over a shard of mirror) we’ll have to buy a bigger and wider cage so they can get along I call myself the little girl who picks up loose change from the floor I was a suicide before I was born a woman in a rabbit-fur coat told me (between two antique dolls with a rusty speech mechanism) ma-ma in/at the typewriter I lie down on the paper about interior places and events (the interior casts its shadow by sloughing off the exterior) this mechanism of a non-obstacle non-tool non-member non-body entièrement complicated women blouses and skirts which you can knock down with just a finger nearer farther however you please I even saw the way my mind works (a kind of pink sausage full of little wheels) ma-ma I saw both hair and time until I go out until I go off until I adjust my nightlight/my umbrella (it’s raining outside outside is inside) inside I put ice on the sun/the bulb I for me/from/towards me/if I I below my middle part I’m there where here is I and there I am then a cathedral of attempts a closed rally between life and death (like the concentration of the insects on wet earth) I was a suicide before I was born that place founded this place this place turns me topsy-turvy an I against an I preaching I smile in short I write for You with the rusty speech mechanism doll/typewriter/parrots look at me flying down on the floor shot in the wing
translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Antuza Genescu |