The Eiffel Tower Poem

the
night
does odd
things like baking
me a cake with my favourite
frosting or taking me bunging jumping
from the top of the Eiffel Tower on a Wednesday
or making me chocolate cookies with walnuts
and pecans the kind that my aunt Alma
made with her bare hands and
a dough board in the
summer kitchen
in the house
she lived
in

Cartesian Meditations

I am reading Husserl’s Cartesian Meditations backwards, as phenomenologist do most things back to front. And as it’s much more fun and less intellectually dulling {Sartre be damned} I will continue on back to front side to side, or some such nonsense and dross. Perhaps I should give serious thought {were I to have such things} to Ego Anonymous or Tractatus Anonymous {Wittgenstein be loathed} and let the cursed fly out of the cursed fly-bottle. But first back to reading, and might I add, I must indeed I must, without the aid of hands, spectacles or a bookmark.

Green, Red, Blue

Egon Schiele

Id Ego Super-Ego

Not-Being-There-there

I am beset with besetment; the sky refuses to acknowledge my beingness, my being-thereness, my being-in-the-worldness. Skies are like this, so I was forewarned, so my complaining falls on deafened ears. Pray tell, why would a sky, any sky, bother to acknowledge my being-there, being-here, being-in-the-moment of there and here? None I would imagine, none whatsoever. My being is incident to a sky’s being, a sky’s being a sky at all, so why the belly aching, you might ask. Because I need to know, I have a strong hankering, a need to know where I sit with the sky, where I am in relation to the sky’s being, its being-there, being-in-the-world, its skyness, so to speak. It has come to my notice that the sky, any sky, is a whore, a whorish whore, so I best leave it at that and get on with the day, my dayness, my being-in-the-day, my being-there but not quite, just a hair off, a hair out of the day, a being not-quite-there-there, anywhere.

Man Sans Hat

Lucien Freud

My Grandfather's Leg

my
grandfather
had
one leg

he
used
for shooing
birds

from
the
scatter
of his thoughts

Yellow3

Quail-egg Blue

Colours evoke and revoke simultaneously, what they give they take away. My mother is a colour, red perhaps; my father the colour brown, the sky quail egg blue, the moon yellow-white-yellow. The strongest colours are those that signify nothing, have no colour yet evoke a palate of feelings, moods, evocations, senses. Colours do not exist outside they’re evocation, they’re sense, the moods and feelings they evoke; juxtaposition, nothingness, my mother, my father, quail egg blue, yellow-white-yellow, brown.

Red Dance

Black Red

Black Yellow

Spine

Dog

Blue Yellow

White

Drake Green

Green

Orange2

Orange

Yellow2

Yellow

Blue

Memory Screen

Stephen Rowntree

2 days in 1958

Michel Houellebecq, born February 26, 1958, French Island of Reunion

Me, February 27, 1958, Quebec Island of Montreal

Tropic of Parasite

Efra deloused Caulker with a wire brush and a bottle of Jives, wrapped him in swaddling cloth and laid him to bed. He pulled the bed linen over his head, tucking in the corners to ensure a good swaddle and sleeve. A jaundice moon cowered the sky, a no-man’s-land, the tropic of parasite; shit sandwiches and false rumours and Efra lost in the vacancy of his thoughts, his hat pulled down over his eyes, two black diamonds cut in halves, and Caulker wrapped in swaddling, Jives and tuck, a gibbous moon sick with junk.

Green is the colour of Absinthe and wormwood, crème de menthe and Chartreuse; a leg rankle with gonorrhoeal pirouettes, syphilitic with fester and blain, gangrene green.

I am tired; I have not been this tired since my expulsion from the parturition hole some forty-eight years ago, February 27th to be exact (which I seldom am). And the doctor masked in green linens, spectacles taped to the bridge of his nose, forcing the speculum into the ovum hatch, me skimming like an otter down the birthing canal arms flailing for dear life. Perhaps this is when the compulsions started, the origin of their unmasking. Afloat in the clemency of the amniotic sac, fingers gripping the umbilicus I felt an ease and comfort that has thereafter eluded me; a foetal oneness, a meta-ontological parity, a oneness with self and other. I can count on nothing but logarithms and integers, vectors and fractions, into’s and out-of’s, pluses and minuses, algebraic nonsense (all of it).

Sanatorium Pod

Bruno SchulzSklepy cynamonowe. Sanatorium pod Klepsydrą

ISBN: 13-7384-249-7
Wydawca: Wydawnictwo Dolnośląskie
Liczba stron: 258
Wymiary: 110 mm x 175 mm
Oprawa miękka
Waga: 154 g
Nr katalogowy: 311424
Cena detaliczna: 20,00 zł
Nakład wyczerpany
Ocena ogólna:
Oceń książkę:

Schulz był najmłodszym dzieckiem żydowskiego kupca, właściciela sklepu z materiałami włókienniczymi. Po latach, gdy rodzice już dawno spoczywali na miejscowym entarzu, uczynił Schulz ze zmitologizowanej postaci swego ojca główną osobę dramatu w "Sklepach cynamonowych" i "Sanatorium pod Klepsydrą", a ze sklepu rodziców - mityczne centrum dzieciństwa i jego czarodziejstw

Sklepy Cynamonowe

Bruno Schultz

Dogman Dinghy, Cobbler

Albacore and finch (the) haberdashers (of) fine men’s clothing (and) neurosis. Freud had his suits tailored there, by a tailor with one thumb and no forefinger. Adler had his shoes resoled there, by a cobbler with a metronome leg and thick eyebrows. The cuckoldry Jung had his collective unconscious reconstituted there, by Martin Morrison the 3rd, not the 2nd or 4th. I refuse to lie like a dog, to hound with you all, I’m staying awake! Dogman Dinghy drew a pictogram of a diorama with the heel of his right foot, unlike that bastard Scottish git with the pillows head and carpoolers, fucking sad bastard cad. Jack and the beanstockyard ate biscuits and Taoist toasts cut into neat little ribbons, just like his dear marmot used to make with a flint knife and a scooter’s fintanfintantannery, me footsies gone to sleep, cobbler’s shoehorn and awl. Nisei nitre tm yawl awl.