from 'reclaiming the apple'
iv: figurine it's all so pre-edenic, so unnamed, naked and so ribless, the dance of what your hands are taking liberty to do [vb: to mean, to be] and i am hardly stone or salt but sweet (you say, tonguing sweetness from my hand extended, bearing fruit, gift, witness, this: the dance of how it happens and has happened mayhappiness would not be a statue of itself posing (naked) questions, and, from the sweetness your teeth will ache, punch-drunk, whiplashed in the dance of who smashed who [as idol; Gen.] the angel of meant to be taking potshots with a peashooter, boiling all the sweetness in my glance at you to sugarcarbon, a post-apocalpyso dance before my [veiled] eyes as i salome you. later. and. wait. be still as all was as is will see (we seal) in stone whose sweetness is a lack (prefigured). is rotten tooth, and claw. all over bite. no [dance be sweetness] joy.
vi: a garden in this place cut heart in bark cut sap from tree cut bleeds the seep of that from me = your garden? = or my wife's garden going down to the sea the one you knew heart-carved as fairy tale (the apple and the leaf, the rib and the naming) by reason of [i guess] the nothing more or less the garden where we - but that's another story, and we are too by this light we are what they say of us the war of us (apple and rib) the punishment of us grown of this seed this good gone arsenic in the belly of now this apparition fleshed over in the skin where we carved what intertwined where we (hearts&flowers) tattooed our earlobes ventricles eyelids swapped fingerprint for fingerprint lost ink to green grew graven the open wound of we are traceable with a fingertip the two dimensions (we are) where [in this place] are we to grow from here
viii: the angel at the gates he should have grown a garden in this place where plants die that is all there is [we were] is all were we to - crocus, daffodil, snowdrop bow our heads bowed under the weight of our heads flower-wright, seed merchant sower, sayer, sire - would you adam&eve it? - make blood-fertile, winnow crave [space] full tilth and husbandry the one forbidden that is to be [what we are] is too - where are we barred gate, threshold, desert cross ourselves cross-selved with us we saw in the wood apple [sound] bite lover later liar
i. they say sheer is looking down beneath water flat rocks glisten.
ii. smashed glass caught in hand or foot or sunlight, incandescent.
iii. for a fragment or a moment - opalescent perfect. object.
iv. heady with fear i look down and see who is holding me.
v. silence holds the weight of your leg suspended glass slows air.
vi. strung by night moves stars against window. Still with you.
vii. star on steel strings underfinger voices turn like whispers
viii. thank you for holding me, a note silent and high as fear.
ix. sensual deliberate storm hints unsettle dawn.
x. sleep soundly and leaving early lose the world underwater.
xi. aquarium gestures, blue of impossible and summer.
xii. a letter in the balance licked close and unsent.
xiii. each one shaped by hand or eye these signs are tiny and irrevocable and glass.
object lessons: three notations for a dance
i. mood piece cheap Kali all highlights and hand gestures How could anything remind me of a good place? How could this? Bastard Christmas red unthreading thin metal the scratch pain of gold Heavy with Moebius, it's all too easy to turn you through many angles (bent like a stick in water like a pin in your eye) breaks you into something new some half-stifled metaphor from some dusty shelf [oh yes the symbiosis of destruction and creation] of course that is what I trace on the waxed wooden boards with dirty toes. of course. the knot. the confusion --- she is being taken and her colours are mine (take the pins from her eyes) there is something we move in and towards that is more than atmosphere something all limb and stretch technology some blister rubbed up by the friction of it, ungeometric skin broken into fresh topography of (course) of what locks us into shape.
ii.1 stimulus "man is to ray as woman is to -- my education in black and white, square, the angle of her face/hat the glove, beckoning the frame she stands out of her usual nakedness absent instead of her usual naked absence his her takes her own pictures (as one takes revenge) first hats and staircases, then discordant architectures of the body wartorn her camera a ravening machine salvation in newsprint dots-per-square-inch the count that keeps us sane over the breakfast table of her images records arguments art (as one says killing is an art) le cadavre exquis too grotesque too damaged for even the operating table and the sewing machine
iii. properties on choosing one's cage factors include: ease of escape, dimensions, position with regard to observers form&content this is a protest piece. I do not want a full length mirror above my body as it fights to stay within the bounds of these stools. I will fall over when I perform for you. I do not want to share this as perfection it is about shattering. It is about escaping the rule of bar space bar. wordspaceword. on choreographing one's escape select the score with care learn the flip of each prop the eye of each corner centrifusion one's own maladroitness one's inequilibrium compulsion to fall to balance phrase and phrase break everything drop everything hold everything finish as you mean to go on 1Man Ray's muse & mistress Lee Miller was a photographer in her own right. When WWII began, he fled to the US. Miller stayed in Paris and joined Magnum. She was the first photographer to enter Auschwitz.
a stone hail brings you to me? wrapped in so a warmth intractable turn tangible be here, surround (by summoned) me follicle by filament in all your shades of black and silver grey thus : skin and hair coat me clean in both beguile cold bind me in what's dead of you but brushed, living fingertiptouched that lick of fur furling outwards this contact promise trade my body under your dead my river given you a history spread out stoneweighted to dry in winter sun.
queen of swords
cant her thought be all the fire all the falling Elizabeth Willis, 'Second Law' her thought cants impossibilities bend like swords in bright water decanted into cups she offers viciously: your fate a patterned headscarf, the smell of incense, children plaintive in the next room her throne rides towards you at a canter, no fastness you can hold against it her crown a circlet, coin, echo of something prickling against your back: cheap plastic seat and sweat such hair and eyes a descant contradiction, flaming at you out of galaxies of beauty. she empresses us all her slender wand of self insurgent delicate the layout whose gold of figures catching tablecloth how can you answer her? your stuttered cantata. cant. wont. the bright stiffness of her body dolls outward piercing and terrible, Vashti Salome Tamora the Queen of Hearts feel it rise spiking your cold and shriven palms incant a Warhol archetype, canned goddess torching off-off Broadway in her satin heels and siren lingerie as striking as she looks, a conjuror's trick, a snake recoil too late reveal too little for only and when she calls tomorrow say nothing to the canted brightness of her nails. nothing but a pack of cards shuffling through your breath her hair snakes out in swords
:: bio ::
Sophie Levy is currently walled into her apartment by a mountain of books on and by experimental women writers from Modernism to the present. Somewhere behind these is a box containing copies of her first book, Marsh Fear/Fen, Tiger (Salt, UK). Her work has also somehow made its way past the books and into Kiss Machine, UnHERd, Sagen Kaese, Works on Paper and Masthead.
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