Worcester College, he says.
I made an appointment because I don't understand the "material". I understand the "material". I just like it when people answer the questions I know the answer to. I feign ignorance and it's unbelievably liberating.
I mimic ooo's and ahhh's and confuse genres on purpose. I like making him believe he's my mentor. Because he is. He is my mentor.
Mentor. Root word is problematic. Mentio, meaning a lie. Or mentos meaning intellectual spirit, or mind.
Well, not really problematic at all is it?
I really want a smoke so I just make up some sort of lie.
"Remember Donne is not replacing Petrarch. He is simply refining him"
He's wrong. Donne is paraphrasing Petrarch.
Donne is a punk. Donne is a fantastic architect but he's too cynical to really get Petrarch's project. The circularity of meaning in a poem. The self-defined referrals on which a work stands.
"Yes I know"
When I turn to leave, he stops me.
"Yes I know"
When I turn to leave, he stops me.
"There is an impossibility implied in Petrarch. To love, but to rely on the unfulfilled desire to create. To create unrequited love and enclose it beautifully"
"That is artifice"
"That's art"
He's full of shit. I'm angry. He has simplified the entire Canonization. I'm going to see Tommy.
Tommy.
Me.
Yes, well he was always on top. A few years older. Clever, eyes like a vulture. Steady. I wanted to please.
"Hey, look, I brought strawberries" I wait in the doorway. His place is immaculate. It isn't clean. It's particular. Guitar left by the sofa. I enter with care.
I ask how he is.
"Well, you know...just miserable waiting for you"
Glint. (flash flash)
"I think I'm going home this weekend"
"I think you need to shut the fuck up"
I do. I close my eyes. I open them. I see a vision of myself. Standing in his doorway. It's a vision of Eurydicean ineptitude.
I've thought it through.
I imagine someone loving me enough not to turn around.
"uhm..Jo?"
Hard mouth full of sharp teeth. Contained in a lush mouth. All coming down with the force of bricks on my own.
Angry. Angry angry angry. Tommy is angry.
Tommy is unloved. Tommy does not love. Tommy needs. Tommy has been buying my food for the past month.
I want to go home now and see mama. I'm losing them southern sayings and my drawl.
"That is artifice"
"That's art"
He's full of shit. I'm angry. He has simplified the entire Canonization. I'm going to see Tommy.
Tommy.
Me.
Yes, well he was always on top. A few years older. Clever, eyes like a vulture. Steady. I wanted to please.
"Hey, look, I brought strawberries" I wait in the doorway. His place is immaculate. It isn't clean. It's particular. Guitar left by the sofa. I enter with care.
I ask how he is.
"Well, you know...just miserable waiting for you"
Glint. (flash flash)
"I think I'm going home this weekend"
"I think you need to shut the fuck up"
I do. I close my eyes. I open them. I see a vision of myself. Standing in his doorway. It's a vision of Eurydicean ineptitude.
I've thought it through.
I imagine someone loving me enough not to turn around.
"uhm..Jo?"
Hard mouth full of sharp teeth. Contained in a lush mouth. All coming down with the force of bricks on my own.
Angry. Angry angry angry. Tommy is angry.
Tommy is unloved. Tommy does not love. Tommy needs. Tommy has been buying my food for the past month.
I want to go home now and see mama. I'm losing them southern sayings and my drawl.
Night rearranges its impoverished light on Tommy's face. Angles of fury. I stare at his eyes. Black holes. Nothing. I fall asleep.
"Baby"
"Yes?"
"Baby, I'm going home. I need to study"
"The only ass in town needs to hit the books"
"Yes?"
"Baby, I'm going home. I need to study"
"The only ass in town needs to hit the books"
He asks how I'm getting home, and I shrug.
I walk. On my way home, I plan the ship bit. I see the faces, the passengers,the hope hovering above the steam like fragmentary clouds.
My breath is foggy. My steps - quick. Shoulders, sonnets.
Bobby.
Tommy.
Me.
I get home. Light a cig.
I don't write. I read a piece I wrote last year.
In Memoriam.
His strength began in his cheek bone; a crescent lost between his chin and jaw; trapped down by his teeth - but to the side. The way he did everything.
----------------------------------------
Downy dry waves undulate beneath blinding neons. The scratched oak panel bears moans, and above is a badly re-made Modigliani in a frame worth more than her entire wardrobe. The shores engulfing her small existence catch flung scarves, return dirty socks underneath bejewled bed-covers only to propel them forward into scratchy resistance of sparkling Persian handiwork. Sleepless nights spent in Hell. Not unlike Jeremiah Johnson's.
Eurydice needed a mirror. Barefoot, open-lipped and with arms in cuts she made her way toward light. The euphoric moment which merges into the sky at once with the small breath one longs from underneath masses of ocean, her blue eye catches glimpse of Zeus smiling down on her. Smiling tenderly, post-coitally, with Leda thrown to the side and satisfied in the aftermaths of seismic pleasure. He sharpens thunder against mountaintops, and spares no eagles' nest. Happy, Prometheus is spared his heart one more night.
Hair rises at the back of her neck. Unruly, straight hair soft and coarse picks up light, from men's broken fingernails to upturned freshwater shells losing their pearls to needy hands. Small hands with big grips. Hades waits. Broken from known providence, he sits as ruined as any god. The next moments are metaphysically significant. She can't live without Orpheus.
She remembers the first time he played. Curled under an acacia, his paint-torn hands wounded his guitar and his face moaned its sounds. Eyes of blackest coal so singular they hurt. So black the sun hurt. So much his, they were hers. So much so, it hurt.
Muslin dress hanging upon a wooden structure of bones, cartilage, and flesh. Elbows cracked and supplying dry skin along trenches of vein. Hurrying steps against herself. Dying footsteps toward lightened change and an old beginning restored anew. Dying of thirst and being rewarded immortality ether. The horrific plan is truly beautiful. Gods can never be trusted only because humans can't believe. In the last moment, faith is gone. God dies on every bird's early tongue. Sit tight.
She danced underwater for him. Snakes shot venom into the air and baby mosquitoes plummeted feeble and small to their liquid grave. Like hundreds of stars sparkling into a morning sky. Fading into light. Dying into blue. His bright red lips, coarse like from a Hardy novel, hungered into hers with childishness. She chided away, shy and unknown. A baby lizard caught into her hair. Its heart beat in his hands. Like a boy, he listened and closed his eyes against himself. She caught the reptile's warmth and made a tent above it with her chubby hands. He made her his wife.
Hades is Hell. He lives hell, and breathes in its orgiastic fury. His wife, bored with untainted eyes of gray, gnaws on passion fruit and calf meat. Slabs cooked and brought from marble altars, bloodied with sacrifice. Vials of fat burning by candle light. Chinese tincture, Hostelian torture. In their freedom, humans are paralyzed. Gods and rules are needed only to be transcended. Gods bent, and rules broken. Orpheus was always going to follow. Contracts hold as long as they resist their ripped counterparts. Eager, quick-stepped, and smelling her hair with tears seeping into his shoes he hurt for them.
His long hands stretched. Clothes ripped. Scissors taken to pulpy flesh - his love letters. They fought. Dogs barked. Flower wreathes followed them home. His mouth ate her sugar skin, and sucked her thin coating. They joined as painfully as they separated. With them, it was all pain.
You look forward to avoid catching a back glance. Dismembered pianos in heaps of garbage. Falling rain on canine carcasses deep in forests where thunder flashes lights a way for fleeing hares. Fleeing into fox dens. Five new pups. Too many threads need mending. Let's tear this sweater.
Mornings brought crusts. On sheets, in eyes, mending open wounds, stabilizing severed segments. Signaling safety. She cleaned. He sang. They began to hate.
Body half inside, half thrown prey to the wild fire of early afternoon. Sadness is a flash. Small. Her neck chords stretch and she looks behind. Hollowed eyes uglify. Terror spreads on terror-stricken handsome face.
Wells with spider webs made of saliva, his mouth became. She slammed doors, and threw meat pies to the pigs. Cannibalism. She was cruel in the cruelest way. Subtly, quietly, deeply. He pulled his hair, and stopped singing.
He screamed instead. Of crying. She pulled his hair to her. Rags remained where his delicate frame occupies.
But at night, when the moonbeams were harshest she kissed him back into her. Everywhere. In a fury. Her hand on his forehead. Long crests of white gold adorning under masses of hair, she made his crown.
She gathered them to her.
Only once he left. In thoughts only; and those proved lonely.
Empty, she returned to the full world.
I walk. On my way home, I plan the ship bit. I see the faces, the passengers,
My breath is foggy. My steps - quick. Shoulders, sonnets.
Bobby.
Tommy.
Me.
I get home. Light a cig.
I don't write. I read a piece I wrote last year.
In Memoriam.
His strength began in his cheek bone; a crescent lost between his chin and jaw; trapped down by his teeth - but to the side. The way he did everything.
----------------------------------------
Downy dry waves undulate beneath blinding neons. The scratched oak panel bears moans, and above is a badly re-made Modigliani in a frame worth more than her entire wardrobe. The shores engulfing her small existence catch flung scarves, return dirty socks underneath bejewled bed-covers only to propel them forward into scratchy resistance of sparkling Persian handiwork. Sleepless nights spent in Hell. Not unlike Jeremiah Johnson's.
Eurydice needed a mirror. Barefoot, open-lipped and with arms in cuts she made her way toward light. The euphoric moment which merges into the sky at once with the small breath one longs from underneath masses of ocean, her blue eye catches glimpse of Zeus smiling down on her. Smiling tenderly, post-coitally, with Leda thrown to the side and satisfied in the aftermaths of seismic pleasure. He sharpens thunder against mountaintops, and spares no eagles' nest. Happy, Prometheus is spared his heart one more night.
Hair rises at the back of her neck. Unruly, straight hair soft and coarse picks up light, from men's broken fingernails to upturned freshwater shells losing their pearls to needy hands. Small hands with big grips. Hades waits. Broken from known providence, he sits as ruined as any god. The next moments are metaphysically significant. She can't live without Orpheus.
She remembers the first time he played. Curled under an acacia, his paint-torn hands wounded his guitar and his face moaned its sounds. Eyes of blackest coal so singular they hurt. So black the sun hurt. So much his, they were hers. So much so, it hurt.
Muslin dress hanging upon a wooden structure of bones, cartilage, and flesh. Elbows cracked and supplying dry skin along trenches of vein. Hurrying steps against herself. Dying footsteps toward lightened change and an old beginning restored anew. Dying of thirst and being rewarded immortality ether. The horrific plan is truly beautiful. Gods can never be trusted only because humans can't believe. In the last moment, faith is gone. God dies on every bird's early tongue. Sit tight.
She danced underwater for him. Snakes shot venom into the air and baby mosquitoes plummeted feeble and small to their liquid grave. Like hundreds of stars sparkling into a morning sky. Fading into light. Dying into blue. His bright red lips, coarse like from a Hardy novel, hungered into hers with childishness. She chided away, shy and unknown. A baby lizard caught into her hair. Its heart beat in his hands. Like a boy, he listened and closed his eyes against himself. She caught the reptile's warmth and made a tent above it with her chubby hands. He made her his wife.
Hades is Hell. He lives hell, and breathes in its orgiastic fury. His wife, bored with untainted eyes of gray, gnaws on passion fruit and calf meat. Slabs cooked and brought from marble altars, bloodied with sacrifice. Vials of fat burning by candle light. Chinese tincture, Hostelian torture. In their freedom, humans are paralyzed. Gods and rules are needed only to be transcended. Gods bent, and rules broken. Orpheus was always going to follow. Contracts hold as long as they resist their ripped counterparts. Eager, quick-stepped, and smelling her hair with tears seeping into his shoes he hurt for them.
His long hands stretched. Clothes ripped. Scissors taken to pulpy flesh - his love letters. They fought. Dogs barked. Flower wreathes followed them home. His mouth ate her sugar skin, and sucked her thin coating. They joined as painfully as they separated. With them, it was all pain.
You look forward to avoid catching a back glance. Dismembered pianos in heaps of garbage. Falling rain on canine carcasses deep in forests where thunder flashes lights a way for fleeing hares. Fleeing into fox dens. Five new pups. Too many threads need mending. Let's tear this sweater.
Mornings brought crusts. On sheets, in eyes, mending open wounds, stabilizing severed segments. Signaling safety. She cleaned. He sang. They began to hate.
Body half inside, half thrown prey to the wild fire of early afternoon. Sadness is a flash. Small. Her neck chords stretch and she looks behind. Hollowed eyes uglify. Terror spreads on terror-stricken handsome face.
Wells with spider webs made of saliva, his mouth became. She slammed doors, and threw meat pies to the pigs. Cannibalism. She was cruel in the cruelest way. Subtly, quietly, deeply. He pulled his hair, and stopped singing.
He screamed instead. Of crying. She pulled his hair to her. Rags remained where his delicate frame occupies.
But at night, when the moonbeams were harshest she kissed him back into her. Everywhere. In a fury. Her hand on his forehead. Long crests of white gold adorning under masses of hair, she made his crown.
She gathered them to her.
Only once he left. In thoughts only; and those proved lonely.
Empty, she returned to the full world.
Am I refining the myth?
No. No. I'm paraphrasing.
A mind. A lie.
And in the absence of a mentor?
Myself.
No. No. I'm paraphrasing.
A mind. A lie.
And in the absence of a mentor?
Myself.
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