The Portal of Lost Wanting

The feeling of knowing always comes first through the guts, a cooling and loosening how organs know and how I know and how I am my organs knowing and warming and then cooling, churning and then knowing and then cooling and then churning. The information is feeling, always either more and less or more fully or less fully itself, until I have to go make soup of myself through the pen and I hold water in and hold other liquids in. And then the girls break their silences in their dresses all anticipating the lifting of their layers, and I am suspiciously clothed in the rigorous silence in which petticoats and hair are interchangeable with the churning of my organs, and I arrive in a snowstorm, I am going to be hail and hailed, the robes are going to fall and be gathered and then fall again, and my arm will be cool and then warm again, and all of the men around me will be abundantly hairy and rhythmic, bent over their technology as it thieves from them the value of their labour, thieves from them their corporeal values and through the mincer in corporeal passings our bodies slink bereft beneath the cracked sill like oil, like having been turned into oil, I’m black gold, I’m glowing, I’m old. Everything that I am that I have

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(from CAConrad’s ‘OIL THIS WAR!’)

OIL OIL EVERYWHERE! Write on old shoes, sandwich wrappers, cans, bags, snotty tissues, used condoms, THIS OIL WAR! On an empty bottle of hand lotion OIL THIS WAR! On a cereal box THIS FAGGOT WORLD VICTORIOUS!

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