Dearest Queen

Dearest Queen (Sovereign of Sentences, Monarch of Morphemes, Princess of Prose!),

Here is my tribute.*
It is in the word-masturbatory, nonsense spirit of Dada poetry. A few people I know will like it. Most won’t, probably.


I smash drawers. I asked her about broken things, about the moon, about Time. Under that excrescence that swelled the sky, I asked her about the man.
“He disintegrated of course,” she said.
It was at that moment that I realized how important it was to me that she thought of herself as miniaturized into a tiny piece of lint. I was wearing suspenders, and thinking about cheap happiness. I was thinking about A ghost in your fingernail. I was thinking, Well, if I took my goddamn spatula and scraped and smacked at the laws of mathematics, I could slice them up like a salami.
We were porch-sitting in a bright, pleasant, pastel-tinted town redolent of dead fish and wet face flannels. I looked out into the sky, saw the fish, floating, in their pungent dress of scales, saw the urine mirage pooled over the heavens, saw the colors…a green so pale perhaps yellow so pale perhaps pale pale mauve.

I said to her: “Look, stuff is coming down!”
She said: Rot in hell.
I said: you would have to be an atheist. You love the process of the game, not the end of it. I said: it’s because you are lazy.

My convex to your concave…it was a pleasant diaphragmal melting, however, these were the points where my destiny was liable to catch. It was close to the moment at which the scansion of the frames would be insinuated between your acts.

Voilà the rivers of wax how they fall from the edges of the moon

Dripping, dripping…three kilogram brains, opening their purses. It was the moment before I fell, if fallen is what I am feeling, if fallen is what I am. I checked the feeling, and the feeling was good. It spread, oozy-gooey liquid-like, like a serum in which colonies of whirling and ravenous micro-organisms were agglomerated.

“What’s coming?”
“The pain.”
“But you never feel it?”

We fell to fertilizing with a will. It is one thousand years later, and I am pleased about it.

There’s always Time and space to ponder. Time and space are the very guts of nature and so, naturally, they undulate in the manner of intestines. Her brain was wrapped entirely by intestines, although they were not hers; they were mine. They changed the shape of her internal people, the ones providing the memories…and thus the memories themselves were altered. One internal person brought memory, not in bits and shreds, but in “trays”. I tried to explain the stretching to her, the long lines.
“You see, wire telegraph is a kind of a very, very long cat. You pull his tail in New York and his head is meowing in Los Angeles.”
Her internal persons thought, as they walked through a small pinch of paper: this is absolutely ravishing.

And every morning the city was born like this from the realm of shadows, all at once, tawny with tiles, sparkling with glass, lime-white with stucco. Why, he thought, Why was there this empty distance between things and himself? They were moving over the superhighway, mesmerized by the furnaces along the skyline, the great metal pipes reaching into the sky, mesmerized because of the sexy smoke that runs out of them. Simultaneously, they thought: is it worse than gap-toothed urchins and coltish grace? They thought, separately, together: the best definition of man is a species in the single moment of its ongoing deterioration. They all fit together in the same machine. For man, in a world where smeared forms predominate, for him the spinal cord would surely suffice. The object flies off into the air, and he thinks: that would be a truly appalling show of scientific illiteracy, would it not?

It is now, five thousand years later, and I am writing a story. I am writing about an Armenian grandfather Czech grandmother a young biker from Kansas (of Czech & Armenian descent), Armenian Czech English OK.

The sequel is familiar.

Most sincerely and humbly,
Catherine Cricket

*A cut-and-paste, sentence-piece stew from various works by the following writers:
Angela Carter; Daniel Handler; Helen Dewitt; Italo Calvino; Kurt Vonnegut; Truddi Chase; Vladimir Nobokov. Bits also from very quotable non-novelists such as Ani DiFranco and Albert Einstein. And Hans Richter, author of Dada: Art and Anti-Art. Like I said, it is a tribute – an expression of my admiration for these talented, word-crafty cowboys. Please don’t sue. I have no money anyway.

~ by kingzoko on June 15, 2011.

One Response to “Dearest Queen”

  1. yuss.

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