Disney and the Erotic Art of Dying
Or,
"Disney and the Art of Erotic Death"
by Benjamin Buchholz
Posted: April 27, 2006
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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