Litkicks Message Board Archive

II. Nutria and others

Posted to Poetry

“It really crawled into me that morning. Like a stinking o t t e r. Full of nature and decision, rotten food, the fight for survival. And it left me with that scent of helplessness: AGE..when I would be ‘over the ridge’; when there’d have been so many orgasms – and so many frustrations, so many darkrooms in between – that every ‘intentional’ embrace would numb me at the thought of doing such a crazy strange? thing – and in the expectation to find it thrilling.
But agape or altruistic love of the mild mind is something you can’t feed your longing body-hair with, at least not in this world where nobody’d care to teach you how to do that, understand ?
So back to slime- and, by now, if could be, impotence …menace and relief .. just treacherous trickery
Or the discussion of choice, repentance and arousal
The background and the relief, the valve of schizophrenia, metabolist sentencing…
Hereditary sequencing. The bicycle and fragments of glass. Birches growing through the boat’s deck. Cats yawning.
Glaring resignation, Zen sleep conditioning, the pass
The things you always wanted to do, like changing this world, but (of course) met only (sad) psychopaths who’d join for the same goals..same as for careers, you know..and perfect metaphor, beauticisms, the living man is something to be, and freedom a difficult word..
And now your time has run out, raising a petition like a (was it: ?) white flag, have mercy on my insufficiency – you whom I urged so long, and who bored me without it being your fault – and let me think about that: myself sitting by that surrealist ocean, glass beads between my fingers, calm enough to listen to classical tunes, able to give myself up, but still with that desire for a gleaming horizon – instead, the RAGE to and for THE HEAVENS – with the spear of destiny, instead of its riverhands………………
And then i feel your brown eyes on me again, sense how you’re breathing………and it’s a task to be alive…a responsibility…and there’s no other beauty to existence, no other truth, Kerouac’s cross and chalice, to mingle with our meaning to what God or what play ever, our squirrelish role..and that means: back to the o t t e r, with gray hair, may be...”