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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ALL I HAVE IS THE BODY TO GO ON WHAT is going on in me. There is movement, always more or less sped up or halted, of consciousness, the movement of consciousness is a vibration in constant flux. Separately to this movement, an aspect of poring over the immediate written past and being unable to divine the written future but trying to, as consciousness takes its new dawn, exactly the essence of its previous but never stopping twice in the same river. Sun hides behind an onslaught of cloud the colour of permanent self-doubt. The absence is one of blaring livefeed and screaming headline, but within that reach of sameness everything is just as it was, and my awareness of self is not separate to an awareness of others having awareness of selves, and suddenly the wash of drilling and mining, the wash of digging and excavating, the permanent wash of greed washing one way only, and I’m in a room alone in cool air in complete rural silence and everything is impossible insofar as everything is inevitable, I’ll stop there.

I’ll start again in wishes, the futility of the day that begins either in a wish fulfilled in having, quickening heart rate, unstopping bottle of will to live, or a wish fulfilled in being dashed, equally wished for, which will carry body back to bed, to lie defeated on its back amidst damp sheets—but either way, wish carries the day, and does it matter whether wishing was for having or not having, if it starts in wishing then wishing has created this fabulous, awful day, day which began long ago in structure of wishing, which risk confounds all other attempts at vibrancy, and in this confounding lies the tidal threat of breakdown, small and thrifty, dormant or wakening underneath the ordinary deaths and ordinary heartaches and the worst thing that could possibly happen happening regularly—and the only answer to any question of despair is breath, and the only answer to any question of how to proceed is breath, and through all the vibrant moments and darkening moments breath is the pinpoint spot where the thoughts can be persuaded to wander off.  An insect dies in the hot shower stream, wings scalded and tracheal system flooded, bodies are struggling in the persistent potential of pointless agony, and coming back always to this, it does not have anything to do with anything

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