Monthly Archives: July 2013

sous la langue (under tongue), by nicole brossard

illustration sous la langue

I did not write this, but it has long been something that I thought worth reading…

Author:  Nicole Brossard, (translated by Susanne de Lotbiniere-Harwood).


The body salivates, yet nothing is foreseen, not the wealth of touching, nor the furtive slowness, the exact frenzy of mouths.  Nothing is foreseen, yet at eye level is where the body first touches everything, without foreseeing the naked skin, and it needs saying, without foreseeing the softness of skin that will be naked even before the mouth signals the state of the world.

Nothing here to suggest that at the slightest touch the gaze already falters wanting already to foresee such a rapprochement.  Nothing is foreseen other than the breathing, the sounds resounding flesh to flesh.  Does she frictional she fluvial she essential does she, in the all-embracing touch that rounds the breasts, love the mouths’ soft roundness or the effect undressing her?  Nothing is foreseen yet at body’s uttermost the skin will image the body for without image there is nothing at body’s uttermost images shatter the state of the world.

You cannot foresee so suddenly leaning towards a face and wanting to lick the soul’s whole body till the gaze sparks with furies and yieldings.  You cannot foresee the body’s being swept into the infinity of curves, of pulsings, every time the body surges you cannot see the image, the hand touching the nape of the neck, the tongue parting the hairs, the knees trembling, the arms from such desire encircling the body like a universe.  Desire is all you see.  You cannot foresee the image, the bursts of laughter, the screams and the tears.  The image is trembling, mute, polyphonic.  Does she frictional she fluvial she essential does she all along her body love the bite, the sound waves, does she love the state of the world in the blaze of flesh to flesh as seconds flow by silken salty cyprin.

You cannot foresee if the words arousing her are vulgar, ancient or foreign or if it is the whole sentence that attracts her and quickens in her a desire like a scent of the embrace, a way of feeling her body as truly ready for everything.  Nothing is foreseen yet the mouth of bodies commoving aroused by the words by instinct finds the image that arouses.

You cannot foresee if the state of the world will topple over with you in the flavour and surging motion tongues.  Nothing is foreseen yet the shirt is half-open, the panties barely away from the cleft and yet the closed lids and yet the inner eyes are all astir from feeling the tender in the fingers.  You cannot foresee if the fingers there will stay, motionless, perfect, for a long while yet, if the middle finger will move O ever so slightly on the little pearl, if the hand will open into a star shape at the very moment when the softness of her cheek, when her breath at the very moment when the other woman’s whole body will weigh so heavily that the book where it rests gives way under the hand, the hand, at the very moment when balance will become precarious and thighs will multiply like orchids, you cannot foresee if the fingers will penetrate, if they’ll forever absorb our fragrance in the image’s continuous movement.

Nothing is foreseen for we do not know what becomes of the image of the state of the world when the patience of mouths lays being bare.  You cannot foresee from among the waves the one the unfurling one the split second that will image in the narrative of bodies whirling at the speed of the image.

You cannot foresee how the tongue wraps round the clitoris to lift the body and move it cell by cell into a realm unreal.

Leave a comment

Filed under prose poetry

the eternal conversation, a poem


The Eternal Conversation

Hard wood portends on my truth, I long to burn every tree,

I long to sift the gray ash of discontent

for the few teeth and bits that remain.

My body is full of small holes,

the better to let you pass through me.

You old vagabond, the sun is you,

the sun is your heart, the sun is your eyes.

Look at me, I will blind you, you will remember nothing.

You will remember only how it felt to come inside me.

I melt men like sugar cubes.

Give me fountains of blue wine to drown myself in.

Let me swill from your fountains.

Let me piss in your bed and make you love it.

Only give me glory and work,

and I will tell you all I know, gladly.

This is what I know.


Pretend you’re my father:  your one spurt of joy

caused me to begin ticking in your pocket.

Pretend you know my name.

Pretend you have always been with me.

Don’t forget me, don’t forget to wind me up,

don’t break the thin gold chain attaching me to your heart.

I am not a cat, I don’t have a plaintive past,

I can’t meow for attention.  I could try to scratch you,

but you would only fling me away in hatred, off to the floor.

Yet away you go, with soap to pass your outrage,

cleansing your sins like so much dry grit.

You boil your soup of amnesia,

burn your tongue with it,

lose the ability to taste anything, ever.

You are like a tourniquet of the breast,

keeping me tied to the earth.  I never let myself float,

I was always afraid I would never return to sanity.

I am an old vagabond, I will die without you.

But that is nothing new.  You abandoned me

on my first day.  You didn’t care what time it was then.

All you cared about was yourself.  You couldn’t live

your promises.  You are nothing.

You have no heart, you have only your tired words.

Taunt the people who are less fortunate than you.

Make them suffer even more, that is your duty and function.

Speak nothing without hunger and death

being always in your mind — these are

the only real problems.  This love, this is an illusion.

There is no love.  There has never been love.

There is only madness, heat and passion.

The game is to force myself out of myself,

into the bigger picture.  I want to be everyone,

all at once.  To rid myself of these cramps.

To stretch the labored muscles, to tear them,

to rend them from the bone, to flay the entire beast

and let it dry in the sun until it is harmless meat.

Dance with fossils without ceasing life.  The past haunts

but it does not weigh down our joy.  We can weep

and laugh simultaneously.  We do not need drugs for this.

I am finished viewing sickness at last.

I have no more patience for dying.  I will bury the dead,

but I will not visit their graves.  I will plant flowers

to bloom in perpetuity, then I will take my filmy scarves

and fly away toward joy.  I will sprout wings,

they will carry me to my own heart.

Those who have passed under my hand won’t suffer,

I am a slim ivory blade, sharper than a razor’s edge.

I am skillful at dispatching those who love me.

I am the merciful murderess, the killer who weeps

as she cuts the veins, sorrow for the blood but joy for the heat.

The others I have jettisoned are always sad,

they think of me with mingled regret and malice,

but they shouldn’t mourn, they’re better off without me,

this I know for I know where I have buried all the dead.

Courage for life, alleys are for the party afterwards,

the wake for the soul.  The body remains upright.

We live without life, we breathe without air.

We fuck without coming.  We give birth

without understanding the process.

The hospital where I will say my last good-byes

to everyone who harmed me, everyone who tried

to caress me.  I built the building, I know its every corridor.

May we all have a plain dance upon dying.

May we go stately to our blessed rot.

May we laugh as the teeth fall from our jaws.

I hope to see my destination, at least from a distance.

Will it be like a train through the mountains?

Will the air rush in to meet me?  Will the air

be like a baby’s kisses?

I see an old vagabond, moronic or just born,

and it is a mirror I stare at.  I have studied all the books,

but can remember only one thing.

Despair is a waste of time.

With artists, we dance my young age and love,

but white hair and rigor mortis are just around the corner.

I can get through anything in one minute segments.

I can breathe the pain through myself,

I can detach it from my body.

I am told when I was sleeping I was at my best.

That is when I hurt no one but myself.

In dreams, I am kind, I am eternal.

Respond to me, you seller of happiness.

Money can buy everything, didn’t you know?

They are only lying to you to keep you down.

The raw chicken sits on the board, weeping juice,

and it is cold under my hands.  To lift the carcass

takes more than I have.  How did my mother,

my grandmother, manage it?

I have been a good feaster of pain —

I have made the banquet from whatever bones were left.

I have seasoned the food until it does not remember

from whence it came.

Riches, I have dispossessed. I work hard

for tomorrow’s bread.  Someone will take care of me.

The poor are patriots, the poor can pass through the gates

into nothing special.  I am nothing special.

I am a very special nothing.

I have been asleep until I heard your voice.

I thought you despised me.  I tried to touch you,

but you were far away, and could not sleep.

You lost the paper with my name on it.

You forgot everything I taught you.

You old vagabond, you are maudlin and past.

I am the future.  I am the young blood,

the hawker, the fresh pain.

I hear what you say, I am only a poor man

but I will live to bury you.  I will live

until my energy is spent.  Then I will

tender my resignation.  Where is my combat pay?

The only true war is the war to be true.

Sharpen your teeth on my bones.

I have undressed the apple that moored me

to the board of my clothing.  There is no nakedness left

beneath this flesh.  I have fucked a thousand like you.

1 Comment

Filed under poetry

just reading the contents of this CLE course makes me ill

A Brief Introduction to The Art of Wealth Protection Planning©
Professor Denis Kleinfeld, Esq. and Alan Gassman, Esq. , Co-Chairman

Using Estate Planning Techniques to Optimize Family Wealth Preservation
Alan S. Gassman, Esq.
Gassman Law Associates, P.A., Clearwater

Where does Florida Law Stand on Fraudulent Transfers?
Jonathan B. Alper, Esq.
Jonathan B. Alper, PLC, Lake Mary

Introduction to Professional Privilege in Wealth Protection Cases—Civil v Criminal; Tax v Non-Tax; When to claim the Fifth; How to Do It right.
Mitchell Fuerst, Esq., Fuerst Ittleman David & Joseph PL, Miami

A Road Map of the Collection Process for the Asset Protection Planner
Arthur C. Neiwirth, Esq., Quintairos, Prieto, Wood & Boyer, P.A. , Fort Lauderdale

Entity Planning for Wealth Protection
Domenick Lioce, Esq.
Naison, Yeager, Gerson, White & Lioce, P.A., West Palm Beach

Recent Asset Protection Case Decisions, Legislation, and Their Importance In Protection Planning
Michael C. Markham, Esq., Johnson, Pope, Bokar, Ruppel, & Burns, LLP, Tampa

Where to Situs a Trust–An Analysis of U.S. Asset Protection States
Professor Denis Kleinfeld, Esq. , Of Counsel to Fuerst Ittleman David & Joseph, Miami

Understanding the Key Tax And Compliance Requirements in Wealth Protection Structures
Charles R. Rubin, Esq.
Gutter Chaves Josepher Rubin Forman Fleisher Miller P.A., Boca Raton

1 Comment

Filed under notes

I’m back

Hacker Travis Alexander Barfield at least temporarily defeated. I will not be silenced.

Leave a comment

Filed under notes, Uncategorized

trimorphic protennoia, the thought that dwells in the light

illustration trimorphic protennoia

“I am Protennoia, the Thought that dwells in the Light. I am the movement that dwells in the All, she in whom the All takes its stand, the first-born among those who came to be, she who exists before the All. She (Protennoia) is called by three names, although she dwells alone, since she is perfect. I am invisible within the Thought of the Invisible One. I am revealed in the immeasurable, ineffable (things). I am incomprehensible, dwelling in the incomprehensible. I move in every creature.”


Filed under recommended reblogs

dog eat dog, a poem

illustration dog eat dog

(image information —

Dog Eat Dog

I. Dreams After Eating A Large Meal

Cannibals exist in all species,
even primates. Chimpanzees,
long thought to be peaceful vegetarians,
love to hunt. Male chimps will kill
newborns from their own troupe
if they suspect the mother
to have consorted with outsiders.
They kill the infant
with a bite to the skull,
then tear it apart, sharing the flesh
with each other. I watched a mother chimp
chasing the males who had grabbed
her baby. She followed
at a slight distance, screaming
from the trees, shaking the branches,
filled with rage but lacking the large
canine fangs of her brothers.
When she was on the verge
of attack, the males would dangle
her infant by one limb, threatening
to drop it 25 feet to the ground.
She backed off, howling
with frustration. In the end,
she gave up. The males sat
and watched, then consumed the flesh
of her offspring. It was the soft
pink of milk-fed veal, so tender,
so sweet — they napped heavily
all afternoon, dreamed vague dreams
involving slim saplings, bent
under their weight, about to snap.

II. Fighting Biology

Every human law is an effort
to curb natural instincts.
When people kill, it is for reasons
they cannot articulate. Come to me,
they hear the victim say. Take me
into yourself and make us both
whole. Much of the time, the message
is obeyed — one wrong look
can end a life. The rule of nature,
what has this to do with love?

III. Brighter Colors, More Vivid Patterns

For scorpions, 25% of their diet
consists of other, smaller scorpions.
Frogs in South America will eat anything
smaller than themselves… though sometimes
they try to swallow another frog,
larger than themselves. Rather than give
up, they both die of suffocation.
Father fish, guarding their eggs, will eat
part of the clutch rather than leave
the eggs unattended to find food.
It is too dangerous to leave the family,
it’s better to sacrifice
a few members to save the whole.

IV. Protein Is Precious

Mother mice, when their nest is found
by a predator, will kill & consume
as much of their litter as they can hold,
recycling precious protein
they’ve spent weeks gathering.
We all want to survive.
Some of us want to survive by eating others.
Some of us want to survive by consuming
air alone. I wanted to survive
without hurting anyone — I thought
it was possible, to take less, to give more.

V. Hunger, Touch, Satisfaction

I’m so hungry. All I can think of is food,
all different kinds. Bowls and bowls
of cereal, popcorn, rice, couscous.
Buckets of slop for the bovine.
Is it really spring outside? Has the mating
dance begun again? Do you love
to curl your hair? Do you long for ringlets,
shiny tresses? Do you want your hair
to touch someone? Do you want to consume
the most tender parts, leaving the rest
for scavengers? Do you understand
what sort of need you are satisfying?


Filed under poetry

birth control in the ancient world, a poem

illustration Silphium stalkillustration silphium seed 200px-Cyrenecoin

Birth Control in the Ancient World

By the third century, our old favorite,
Silphium, was extinct. Overharvested,
the plant had been worth its weight
in silver for a generation.
Gone forever were the bright yellow

flowers, the glossy, deeply lobed
leaves. We turned next to a close
relative, asafoetida, a pungent spice,
yes, but much less effective.
Besides, our breath smelled

always of fermenting fish;
the men started to complain;
thus the population swelled.
Queen Anne’s Lace grew wild
in the countryside; we brewed strong

tea or simply chewed the hard little
grains dry after the act…. If that
didn’t work, we tried artemesia,
abortifacient, only toxic in excess —
Artemis, goddess of women, protector

of childbirth, let us down rather more
frequently than we deserved.
The truly desperate ones might
gorge themselves on pomegranates;
the red juice stained their lips,

made them look fevered; sometimes
that did the trick. By the twelfth
century, only a few midwives knew
which herbs prevented the seed from
planting itself; they were banished

as witches and we lost that knowledge
for five hundred years — not so long
a time that we didn’t remember what it
had felt like, to love as often
as we liked without consequences.


Filed under poetry