kagablog

As pleasure ceases to be the response to the individual’s desire and excessively exceeds this desire, it simultaneously exceeds individual being and replaces it with a shifting - a kind of radiant, excessive suspense connected with a feeling of nakedness and entering into the open nakedness of the other person. such a state assumes nakedness as being present, as being absolutely there, and it does this by way of an innocent if skillful contact - although the skill i refer to doesn’t belong to hands or bodies. it seeks intimate knowledge of nakedness - knowledge of the wound of physical being - whose opening deepens with each contact.

georges bataille
on nietzsche

often a deranged beyond lacerates us while we’re apparently bent on lasciviousness. this is because a “beyond” begins with a feeling of nakedness. asexual nakedness is simply stupor taken to the limit. but as it awakens us to an awareness of physical touch (touch of bodies, hands, moist lips), it’s gentle, animal, and sacred.

since, once naked, we each open to more than what we are, and for the first time we obliterate ourselves in the absence of animal limits. we obliterate ourselves, spreading our legs, our legs opening as widely as possible, to what no longer is us but is something impersonal - a swampy existence of the flesh.

the communication of two individuals occurs when they lose themselves in sweet, shared slime.

georges bataille
on nietzsche

this is not an order
this is not a poem
this is not a mantra
this is not a list of recriminations
this is not a 12 step program
this is not anything
this is not me
this is not you
so no stress now baby
i’m busy anyway
the truth is
if you’re going to live a lie
you have to do it very convincingly
and you don’t have to worry about my loyalty
i’m always loyal to me
and you don’t have to worry about timing
i’ll know when it’s time to make the first mistakes
and if you’re afraid that i’ll debase you
don’t forget a little debasement goes a long way
and i know that your mouth is a temple
so open it wider
and i know that your eyes are portals to your soul
so close them
this is what i’m gonna do
i’m going to uncontrol you
til your five senses ungovern you
i’m going to unfasten your seatbelt
and watch while you float through the windscreen
i’m going to help pull you untogether
going to watch while you put off your face
so don’t be anybody
don’t be somebody
don’t be a person
don’t be a woman
don’t be a girl
don’t be you
don’t be anything
don’t be free
don’t be me
don’t be

This is an all-ages poem
so I can’t mention
which part of you
I’d like to suck on.

who did you become?
that’s not anybody i know
wearing your clothes
wearing your eyes

who did you become?
who’s that wearing your hair?
wearing your smile?

who’s that trying so hard
not to wear your tears

Go down
go down where you have to
and we both know you have to

Go down
take off your clothes
for countless strangers
I won’t stop you
I know you have to
go down

There’s a place in your eyes
that’s empty
Go down
Fill it
Like I did
I went down

Go down
do what you have to
and we both know
you have to
Go down
I’ll be here for you
Always

southbound go my fingers
southbound goes my tongue
lie back and close your eyes girl
i’m southbound
i’m southbound

one of the devil’s daughters called out my name
she said come here boy come here and play
so i went down and i played
i played love with one of the devil’s daughters
but i did not emerge unscathed

a powerful death drive drove me
i tried to die but i could not die
i tried to be born but i could not be born
then i realized
don’t try
be

but i’m not ashamed of myself anymore
every beating i gave her was a begging for forgiveness
every dark bruise on her junkie pale skin was the gateway to a valley of light

and it’s true she fucked around like a two-stroke
but that’s what devil’s daughters do
i made the mistake of not believing the evidence of my senses
when i heard her whisper my name

my intuition told me to run away
my dick stood up and yelled “charge”

there you are
lying in the grass
giggling
while he stabs you
his stabbing at first stylized
and then faster faster
as if syncopating with your giggles
when suddenly there is a voice from behind the video camera
it says “kick her”
so your stabber kicks you
which gives you another fit of
giggles

i watch this all
bemused and detached
i have become your web stalker
i have nothing left of you
except
media

when you don’t fit in
you have to become your own genre
your own niche

and market that

Post festum - Pain at the decay of erotic relationships is not just, as it takes itself to be, fear of love’s withdrawal, nor the kind of narcissistic melancholy that has been penetratingly described by Freud. Also involved is fear of the transience of one’s own feelings. So little room is left to spontaneous impulses that anyone still granted them at all feels them as joy and treasure even when they cause pain, and indeed, experiences the last stinging traces of immediacy as a possession to be grimly defended, in order not to become oneself a thing. The fear of loving another is greater, no doubt, than of losing that other’s love. The idea offered to us as solace that in a few years we shall not understand our passion and will be able to meet the loved woman in company with nothing more than fleeting, astonished curiosity, is apt to exasperate the recipient beyond all measure. That passion, which breaches the context of rational utility and seems to help the self to escape its monadic prison, should itself be something relative to be fitted back into individual life by ignominious reason, is the ultimate blasphemy. And yet inescapably passion itself, in experiencing the inalienable boundary between two people, is forced to reflect on that very moment and thus, in the act of being overwhelmed by it, to recognize the nullity of its overwhelming. Really one has always sensed futility; happiness lay in the nonsensical thought of being carried away, and each time that went wrong was the last time, was death. The transience of that in which life is concentrated to its utmost breaks through in just that extreme concentration. On top of all else the unhappy lover has to admit that exactly where he thought he was forgetting himself he loved himself only. No directness leads outside the guilty circle of the natural, but only reflection on how closed it is.

Theodor W Adorno
Messages In A Bottle

An eponymous poem wrote itself.
A ballad
fell
down
the
stairs.
A lullaby hummed a hymn to sleep.
The anthem
stood up in a crowd of irreverant ditties
and
made
every
one
of
them
weep.

Ah but while all of this was going on
I was watching you,
wondering what your nipples would taste like

The dumb waiters served
the striking workers beer
but the workers refused to drink.
The army was called in
to keep the peace
but the referee mislaid his whistle
so what was blown up instead
was the evidence of a document
that the judge denied he’d signed twice.

Now the Zebra’s crossing,
the Rhino’s horny
and the Crocodile’s tears
are drowning the Gefilte Fish.
The Elephant’s memory forgot
where Noah parked the Ark
and the Jericho trumpets
were sent in
for re-tuning.

Ah but what does all this matter,
‘cos I’ve been watching you,
watching you,
take off
all you’re wearing.

“In love, it is the liberty of the other that I want to assimilate or to possess as liberty; for it is the liberty of the other that separates the other from me and constitutes me an object revealing my outside to the other. For the other can never love me as an object, and he can love me as a subject only by making himself an object which will be all the world to me and seduce me. The loved one only becomes lover by becoming consumed with the desire to be loved. Thus each is trying to be an object of fascination to the other and to demand that the other exist solely to found, will and sustain him as object. To love is in its essence the project to make oneself loved. It is in principle that this enterprise is doomed, for I cannot be loved as an object, and I cannot be other than an object to another, and the love of the other is essentially the same project to be loved as subject by me. I cannot get to the goal, I can only turn aside to masochism, making myself wholly an object, using my liberty to deprive myself of liberty, or to sadism, compelling the other to become wholly a thing, a body. These aberrations are themselves self-defeating. And they are only isolated and developed moments of normal sexual intercourse, which is the original project for possessing the liberty of the other through his objectivity. For sexual differentiation and sexual acts spring from deeper ontological structures. The desire which attempts to satisfy itself in sexual acts is a desire for a person taken in his life and place and to become with that person nothing other than one’s flesh and blood, pure facticity, contingency. I MAKE MYSELF FLESH IN THE PRESENCE OF THE OTHER IN ORDER TO APPROPRIATE THE FLESH OF THE OTHER. The ideal end of desire is the complete incarnation of both consciousnesses in the embrace, with the elimination of movement, the world, even of consciousness. It is the choice of a mode of consciousness: why does the consciousness choose to annul itself under the form of desire? In desire I live my body in a special manner and the world about me suffers a modification: my body is no longer felt as the instrument which cannot be used by another instrument, corresponding to my acts and to a world of serviceable-things; it is lived as flesh, and it is in reference to my flesh that I apprehend the world about me: I make myself passive, I am more sensible of the material substance of things than of their form and use: consciousness sinks into a body which sinks into the world. I come very near to being a thing in the middle of the world, and very like the dead. The meaning of all this is in the attempt to seize the liberty of the other in itself by reducing it to its identity with the palpable. This ideal aim is inevitably frustrated by turning into mere power over the body of the other. I wish to be drunk by my body as the ink by a drunkard in order that the other shall do likewise. The consummation of the sexual act disturbs the profounder intention, which anyhow is doomed to frustration since it is self-contradictory. The liberty, subjectivity, of the other cannot be seized physically.

HJ Blackham
Six Existentialist Thinkers (Sartre)

we cannot abstain from watching for the revelation of a being that would be an object neither for herself nor for any other gaze and yet which would effect, in the mystery of her invisibility, the condensation of all objectivity

jean paul sartre