db (III) "rally", "blood in the water 2/3", "3.Jan.17", "5.Mar.17"
a constant imbibe:
weeping, toward bedlam—
each war-whiff a meal
senators: roads leading
at Puteoli beneath a hoof
'i will drink poison
& god-like be cured
Rome (from the mouthpiece)
beating thighs blue
w/ her mouth & breast.
we had made our way out along the desert road & were pulling 190 when the heat sent a bok flinging heft to the bumper & spun & wrote & weaved its guts like Pollock all up & back the way we came. 30 or so cars passed us in the wake—2 hours at least—no one slowed down, though bones cast portend a future. the hood was gore. each of us took an aloe ferox & scoped it for life (snakes &c.), thinking this is the end since any & all water bottles had burst on impact & flown like projectiles first thru Spuds then thru the windshield. Spuds looked like a protea. “eina, bru…”
this is the way up thru the CT traffic. mules, goats, buses, tyre fires, illegal electricity taps, the shingles of roofs saying Castle Lite Black Label ANC…
somewhere, perhaps the centre, the smoke & the peri-peri & Sunlight ,
i am speeding along somewhere
on this highway heading out toward the Hottentot Hollands, up & over, to the klein then the fuck-off Karoo. the acid has started to mess w/ my head—SHIVA HELP ME if this ain’t the best damn road on the planet. the mountains reel overhead, the colours of sky & earth tessellate. all out from here, only sunglasses & violent rays…
the swoop of the car isn’t a fear & loathing # by any means. this isn’t some fucking homage mission thru the SA version of the Mojave. for one thing, the others…
i’d been counting perforations on the dashboard leather, shaking hands w/ the ghouls crawling out to escape all that vorsprung durch technik & completely forgot the others.
to recap: Sister Margaret; Spuds in the two-tone shirt; Horst, his hands like mittens of cricket-leg hairs but bald as a bastard; Sara, her head on a reel, playing movies from memory, the black power march of her jaw-sweat steaming,
mission critical: convey safe passage: icebox contains green chocolate: Orange River test, c. 00h00 for fireworks display: TRY NOT TO CONSUME THE GUIDE OUT OF BOREDOM: this snout is not a crocodile’s & you are not a nun:
write yrself into being. who are u? what do u see, feel, do? why are u? u are a consciouness, no? there must be a justification for the spew, the broken spigot, the unbendable horizon that ends by being unending. feel the spasm in the hamstring of your left calf muscle & the right foot pressed by its weight btwn the calf & the off-red texture of the couch. see yr distended feet & count the wisps of hair & notice the dirt beneath the nails & the grit of the underfoot. see the spider vein in yr right calf twitching w/ the off-rhythm pulse of yr heart. & notice, just beyond, the pressure of yr left heel on the coffee table (don’t be lost in the conceit of ‘doing this tmrw’, u r not here today). the tea is in a brown mug sitting on a floral coaster set over a cupholder w/ the tea-bag tied to the handle & all of that detail is made living but is not…it’s just words. & u (yes there u r) write them. & they seem flat because they are. & no amount of ‘reality’ will make the unreal real.
being in public & feeling so disconnected from everything & everyone…i move as if underwater & stop as if affixed to the earth by silken threads. to be a kite. […] i seek comfort in the iceberg of others. in delving, diving, plumbing there, i sink surrounded tho alone. i can drag the walls w/ me. […] it is naivety to believe that all either wallow or ascend & always in inverse relation to whichever position u (meaning here ‘i’) occupy. i am happy, the world is not. i am sad, the world is not. the perverse truth too many seem to avoid is that we are each of us singular, whether drowning or floating, & there is no metric by which to measure & compare that experience despite how often we do try (e.g., literature, speech, bodily intimacy, &c.). we cannot hold the sea. & should we float there are those of us who will float pent like driftwood & those of us who float merely like a gull set to rest before flight. woe, the driftwood life. not only possible but certain. to be washed ashore by this great accountant, admired briefly as the shape of none & reclaimed swiftly by the tide. […]