Hell (Opens Like)
Two figures: one lingers “on the threshold” and becomes The Performer, or Poet ( You decide?); the other? Approaches and disappears.
Altogether there should be three apertures or doorways, seen as exits ( because we are trapped because we think we are trapped) but possible to imagine— from another point of view— as entrances. Entry wounds. Mis- spelled as woulds. The dark, etc. ( Whose woulds these are / I think I… No.) Everything should be seen as being able to be seen (even if it isn’t seen) from at least two sides.
A certain hollowness made resonant by citation: “The past catches up to him!” (Almost.)
Forced to repeat not the glance itself but the instant before and the slow turn: dropping one shoulder, shifting the weight onto that foot and so forth, stretching out the open hand to…
Then the slow collapse as if shot. Subtle. Subtitle: These actions are too narrative! I’m out of here! ( The slow process of being “reduced from a ‘whole’ person to a ‘tainted’ and discredited one.”) A scream.
Just the edge— we won’t go any farther. There isn’t any… I picture… I picture the edge of hell as thick with shadows, shapes of bodies, shades, indistinct and always moving, dense overlapping restless crowd, nothing but the sound of paper on paper.
Before that each movement echoed by another, as if connected by strings— or story.
“The dreamer must accept his dream” (subtitle / translation / under the action:
One shoulder drops and the neck lengthens and the eyes, they “cut” in that direction, quickly. Freeze (fame). Whatever looks back… (O, really?)
Recedes fading slowly vanishing. “A logistical nightmare,” anyway.
Unfixed shimmer of the walls They make these days I swear Everything’s going to…
I hadn’t realized how infected it was. The Poet Oozing away. He escapes (alone to tell thee) from
The slurred unsteady edges of the walls, walls, walls: The “throbbing” and the “sobbing” of the… And “The Past Almost Catches Up!” appears: A frightening headLine. VoiceOver: A bitter dream. He’s another person now or he’s someone who makes that claim. “It opens like a wound.” Entrances. With a report. Lips lifting in the smile. Started thinking (“not thinking,” we say— of this sort of mistake) that since they were pretty much out of there anyway it was safe…
I can see it / her I remember it / her I ( hit her) “As if shit were yesterday”
It’s time to file and sort this material of course let’s What do I want That’s what I’m asking Why didn’t you ask me I’m asking Why didn’t you Because you
“I hear a melody,” the artist said, dragging his partner off the dance floor. ( Indeed: this is too realistic. Shoot me.)
There are all these forms To sign.
Time versus times:
“I need a way to think about intimacy.” Then his whole body (“discredited”) turning
I picture the edge of hell as thick with figures— A shifting uncertain space: I am a guest and the cause of some unhappiness.
She “melts into the crowd” Now, there’s a phrase…