the inevitable agony of the discontinuous creature
doomed to die…
Georges Bataille
Pin prick of our met glance. We say
'woman', to define
if the taboo loses its force, if it
is needle-sharp, but
she is taller, darker. See her high, lone
watch-tower of spine. Night, her only window, beveled
mirror-edged. But 'night'
is no longer believed in, transgression is impossible
is a turning
word, a horizon unraveling its own hem. Mustn't
use it to fix her meaning in a
place we'll think
but the feeling of transgression persists if only
easily found again.
Say 'man', knowing this need to pronounce bewilders,
no translation remains continuous. Our pretence, placing
words on a line,
through sexual aberrations. That feeling has no comprehensible
script on skin, only surface of body we
sustain. Indelibly. We
brandish involuntary gesture into flourish. Emptiness
must be punctuated—
objective basis. How can it be understood, unless
reason calls this
containment. Exhausting work. With every pore ceaselessly oracular.
we go right back to the inevitable agony
