d e c e m b e r  23rd  2 0 0 2


the body is fresh, moist and crisp from what seems to be cleanliness. i can only clutch it as though a chiffon doll. its manikin value encourages malleability -- i can do whatever is fathomable with it, as i see fit, for it is mine. but it is dripping liquids reminiscent of the cold sea. the halcyon has gone; there is no one to assuage, there is no one to elutriate the mess left by the one who claimed purity.

and so, it is a much needed devoir to be perched upon a high tower and to brandish the body above the balustrade so to shake away its flux. and if still damp, there's always a rope on which one can let it hang while i am spirited away, just for a short while, until the waves coil around the centre, shrivel up and subside. an urgency for finis professed by my own essence. such charming treason.