Saturday, April 9, 2011


As the woman, no longer a member of her youth entered the middle of her age, she vomited up the remainder.  There she goes.  Laboriously lifting her head to get the hair out of her face for now to hang limp in the absence of the wind.  Nonchalant.  There she goes.

No longer a member of her youth.  Now entering the middle  squeezed between and there she goes.  Trying to remember those songs from that decade that spins in the nausea swirled by the hell of others.  Slapping Sartre and there she goes.  No longer a member of her youth.  Now entering the middle.  The middle of her middle.  There she goes.  Holding her tongue.  Biting her tongue.  There she goes.  The nausea makes the music skip.  Scratch.  Scratch.  The music is stuck and skips ahead.  No longer a member of her youth.  Slapping Sartre and there she goes.

Thoughts tangled with lyrics no longer memories of her youth.  Skipping ahead over the stuck stuck stuck skipping ahead to the middle of her middle.  Hold her tongue.  Bite her tongue.  She thought she thought of the building.  The assembly and the loud nausea.  The assembly of disconnection disconnected by phrases of others nauseatingly afraid.  They and their fear that they reproduced by the disease of language's mutating nonsense.  There she goes.  The assembly.  Nausea.  Stuck music.  What about what she liked?  Liked?  Gravitated to.  She had gravitation?  Nausea.  The assembly.  Never had she recalled pretending not to be alone among so many people assembled together.  There she goes.

No longer a member of her youth.  Skip skip skip over the middle to the precipice of death.  Now there's a wind.  Now her hair is filling with gusts of emptiness that pushes out the nausea.  Nausea.  Yuck yuck yuck yuck.  Back again and skipping past the music she is trying to hold on to.  Nausea.  Being sliced by the petulance of the wind.  In her hair.  Her hair filled with the land of others.  Hell is others.  Slapping Sartre.  Bitch of a philosophy.  Bitchy language.  Washing her worn face over the slippery sink.  No longer a member of her youth.  Slipping and skipping ahead.  There she goes.

Her bathroom.  There she is not.  Just a box.  On a ball.  Nausea.  Won't go away.  There she goes.  Where?  There.  There?  Fingers want to comb the terrain.  The hair is knotted.  Limbs are caught in the knots.  Knots and scratches and glitches.  Skipping over the music that cannot be recalled.  Nausea.  Skipping off the atmosphere.  There she goes.

- Max Stoltenberg

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