Tuesday, May 09, 2017

Our Death 35 / Abject 2 (after Baudelaire)

Oh great love, that will crush the human world, I wish we could do something to help each other. But today I am surrounded by the most tedious of enemies. Look at him there, for example, leaning against the wall, asking me again and again about my fever. I would smash him if I could. I would explain to him that fever, in the way that he would speak it, is merely a strange reflection of his smile, his sense of rightness within the so-called world. That fever, when he uses the word, is merely an arrangement of five letters, whereas for me it is closer to the five senses, to all of human history, to the cities of the sun and the devastation inflicted there. Oh great love, if only you could whisper to me the language needed to describe that devastation, so I might fill his mouth with the thorns of our great loss. It seems that everything we once knew has been stolen from us, and now idiots are reciting it, idiots who don’t know how to close their mouths, and the sounds those mouths make are razors scratching words into our chests. Oh great love, I cannot read the language written there. I wish I could say to you just one soothing word. But today I am the filthiest of brides. Only the stains around my mouth make me less repellent than those whom I most despise. 

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