Disney and the Erotic Art of Dying

What is right is what feels right after it has finished, Epicurus, measure me.

Such compass for the forgetting few who would have you think you will not are not dying, O.

Such compass for the stillmind or contemplation of an ineffable limit in whom the corialis breezes sheer from farmstead and streetlight all action away like kissing. Yet kisses can with Disneyland deceive some whoreson sloppery staggering together at the ass end of a night in the bar’s boilerroom or outside in sulfur curblight deafening the two of you not even having spoken to each other in the dimwitted glitterball bumping broadside together hoarsely in a discotheque but back alley bedeviled blind and biting her lip I am lost to garbage sluicing and vomit stench where we were supposed to have rescued each other and not disgusted so much because she is a little fat around the hips or because I am unsure and thinking worried whether Joe made plans earwhispering elsewhere with hands in her back bluejean pockets finding his, his what?, what were we looking for afterall those barlikely nights?, when all of us actually possess within but can’t quite think of it that answer, accident of a girl found there outside the nightclub handholding has it, the answer, so too that particular beauty deeply out of place and standoffishly alone leaning on the bar rail not because she wants distance but because she is shockingly and men cowards for rejection, this she has, the answer, so too Joe, at least back then, maybe not no more, is/has it, the answer, and I, I still do, I know it, have some shadow of it, the key scraping tumblers to what it was that was sought in our Mecca in our American plastic Ka’bah aglitter hipshaking ho I saw you across the room and just needed to say hi, the easy pain, oxymoronic, of our pleasure.

Here then the knight charming hacking mulberries mutant and dragonfire aflame in his young heart means to make meaningful his kiss through suffragette style, and all is well in the end if it ends well Walt, with a strong moral and the grays glinted over and nicely penned credits cartooning an elegiac couple, an ecstasy, tomb-writ, risen against, finding in the force of good that one razor Occam kept for midnights on his toilet alone. That’s the simple version. Simple to think promiscuity is its own end, that we feel really the need to neck each other because it is in itself a delight. That metaphor might be in my allusions just another broken ganglion end of an American flag four score years from now sticking windfreed and Great Aunt forgotten from a sand skirted mound which had been once in a border war some Joe’s berm, stylish starblue wand waving, massproduced, in expectation, dire uxory. The Disney mythos of kiss and wake sells you a truth it cannot name nor reflect except in opposition to the thing itself beneath its colorpencil pixilated celluloid form which is man and woman are made not for eternal life rebirth and glory through love but for dissolution and the eventual unavoidable unbeing of themselves.

Let me demonstrate.

You take me away.

You drive me crazy.

I would die for you.

i love You, as e.e. put it, self-diminishingly.

The ‘Little Death.’

You are my everything.

I am only alive when I am with you.

Platitudes penned in past ages Disneyesque when man might stomach better the idea that he is a nothing or might symbol a passing instance of mote and O Where Art Thou Romeo, perhaps, no — certainly — the perfection of this instance, not so much tragic, I always when I cliff-noted it couldn’t quite get ‘tragic’ out of them, maybe not funny as in haha funny though there are some quartos, but really achieved of something far greater which is the Medusa refraction allowing that we may look upon it in its shield and know for ourselves the form, flattened, bent, but beautiful because it is holy and always, truth. They brave collapse these lovers and are.

What we seek when we seek the balm of lips furied onto our lips could be listed in its isnots endlessly but I am bitter and far away time and space from kissing’s like and coiling around in my memory fruits nectarine and flysweet to hand them to thee one by one that you might taste their juices and know, not that we may by breathing in lust go increase life’s scope or clarity or worth but that we might in a really successful sucking together be sucked of our pith, lose ourselves, be gone and away and perhaps for a moment cease struggle and be raised not by ourselves which is our fate and need and manifest to bump bump against beneath the spackled glitterball, but, but frighteningly, by the illusion of a hand imploding us.

To kiss well is to die.

Thus spake Marvell centuries after himself of this most lucid night:

And Baghdad darken and the bridge
Across the silent river gone
And through Arabia the edge
Of evening widen and steal on

Limp body in my arms in the alleyway fainting lassie greedy bitch I was the one wanting to die and now I must hold you aloft for I fear falling both of us together into these very vacuums we have left and so everywhere I go I bring with me little levers and props and strings to puppet myself from the hells and heavens of an ex machina madly allowing those random days of my youth such drinking of my body close to oblivion that the closer peril of a spirit oblivion in her pluralized random shiftless body only a moment I can brave, a big toe touching her lakeshining or Styx sliding o’er the shadow of night and perhaps a glimmer woozy and vertiginous of looking into my forbidden dancehall hand-dug crater widening sorcery on the tips of tongues falling like seraphim ever upward into that reflection.

Fire On Babylon, Sinead, she rode me, rides me in my thinkthings all cowboy bedcreaking ‘til it busted and sent sprawling on us gauze and faux iron scrolled canopies and against the beat of banshee music we worked among the debris, her pressing me, me pressing home, hot, hurting, sweat all over, gasping, gone, gone, far away, then and now, for then I could see nothing but bloodrush stars and the edges of blackness come creeping toward me at the limits of my sight and now likewise removed my earthen tower on Babylon’s own plain is empty except for this animus me, I am no good to god no good to country, not fearing, not in fealty, ashamed for I am from the deathnearness of a kiss-being-remembered so wholly thrust down into the clutching, so much in an abyss of something cheaper than sex, better clinically, improved by the rethinking quick kindled mind this very act would defeat so that in retrospect there is nosuch limiting pain, nosuch ground for the lightning, nosuch cold earth reminder of the faux iron pressed on my shins, labeling me definitely irrevocably here, nosuch imperfections of her drunk and clumsy jiggling, only this: the remembering through its abyss the picture of almost achieving a solitude and a stillness at the middle of the ring of dark well-deep splendor in the heat of some circumstantial dying and of that, my friend, I am sure.

So, please, please, kiss away all.

From outside the kissing I will watch you, voyeur of an implosion, the foreign part of me, the misunderstood, the unwalnut, the Vanderhoeven who has cut himself down from the edge of the high plain, down from the tree, and he sees you, follows you into your barn and haystack sleeping, and here he is always awake, hollow, sleuthing as you snore, watching Bliss beside you as she rises with the berry stain on her lips, silent, swaying only a few inches from the ground, and plucks from your gaping grin and crater mouth-open dreams of oblivion the promise of you and she in lakewater washing the strong silent forever.

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