Look-horror: eye line of mouth. Squeeze back. Flesh ripple. Extrude.
Now: google a crime scene photo. Axe to head. Shotgun face. Bathtub meat. Blank. Google a suicide note. I LOVE YOU. Look-horror: reach towards ?
GO TO YOUR BATHROOM.
Now: look out at the sea. A plain that stretches eye. A ball. Light. Look towards nothing. Out, out, out. Go. Stand on a cliff. Seize in front of a lighthouse. You are a raging beam of fire. Your shadow is ecstasy projected across the sea.
you are failing to write a novel.
you desperately want to write a novel. (look at all these pages!)
instead: endless reflections of yourself. boring!
(a picture of my face, close-up, blurry, head tilted back, taking a deep breath; as if jumping into a lake.)
flowers of spit
stab my eye & unseat
a prism on the forehead ≠
the eye reaches out the stroke contaminates
i mean the gaze of men on the street,
stroking my legs the smell of subway seats;
mildew, stale piss
worse, a blankness. an unseeing.
Cassandra’s sight → my year as an eye.
i am looking for vision
(the mind’s eye is not an image, directly. abhorrently metaphorical, the verbal image, the pictorial intent between poetry & picture…. to paint.)
Death in fire.
Tuned towards the void/tuned towards myself.
and yet, the sneakiness of Aten. the sun that touches.
the multiplicity of light.
this is a vision made velvet.
grace = public toilet
my myopic eyeline = my vanity’s mirror.
is there a gun in me?
in my mirror is the opposite.
body → alka-seltzer intellect
i want to destroy all reflections every image of me
i’ll write every tabloid for it
all call to smash
that pesky, worrisome gut that is yourself.
AN IMAGE BY WHICH TO DEGRADE:
(Images of my face, over and over.)
Chaos magic: things will be good.
Chaos magic: I am not seeking secret knowledge. The occult is stupid. There’s nothing to learn, only things to look at. I want to make those things. I want to make-look, like a spectacle. Like a porno.
Chaos magic: Change me.
Chaos magic: One eye red, one eye not-blue.
Chaos magic: You go this way, as the sun guides. The air shimmers. I am glutted, full of blood. This is true because I can see it’s blue trails sliding under my skin.
There is a black spot in my eye,
blackness creeping on the edges of my vision. That’s it.
ELECTRIFY MY EYES
WHEN I LOOK INTO
THE MIRROR I
SPIT & CONVULSE.
MAKE ME SEE
YOUR ALTAR, LOVE,
REAL AS BERNINI
HAND TO FLESH
LOSE YOUR SHIT
ON THE ROOF OF A CAR.
AN ARCHED BACK
AN ARCHED BACK
IN A RIVER BED,
IN AN ELEVATOR.
(a photo of my own convulsions. they may be self-induced, if necessary.)
AN IMAGE FROM CHILDHOOD:
SIGHTSEEING AS PERVERSION FROM MY FLUXUS EDUCATION PERVERT, PERVERT
A MAN FLASHING THE PARKING LOT AT SCHOOL
YES, A MOMENT
YOU REMEMBER FROM CHILDHOOD THE POLICE COME TO DOOR.
A THOUSAND YEARS LATER
I HOPE MY EYE PEES OUT EVERYTHING I AM WORRIED ABOUT.
IF I MAKE A PORTRAIT OF MYSELF
THE PHOTOGRAPH BECOMES MONOMANIC.
YES, FUNGUS IS AN ANIMAL NEARLY HURTABLE.
BUY A CAMERA,
SET IT ON THE DRESSER. TAKE A PICTURE.
HERE I AM TEARING MYSELF IN TWO.
m. forajter is the editor of Tarpaulin Sky Press & Magazine. Her work has been published in several magazines, including The Journal Petra, Court Green, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Deluge, and Witch Craft Magazine. Her chapbooks, WHITE DEER and Marmalade Girl, are available from dancing girl press. She really likes Nirvana, werewolves, and medieval art.