WHAT HAPPENED TO NORMA

I // How I escaped the bomb, or WHAT HAPPENED TO NORMA

There was no bomb originally
or the bomb was Norma
or the bomb was a cup of something
that wasn’t quite something
that wasn’t quite a cup.

But there was no bomb originally,
just stone metal grates and
deep charcoal mushroom clouds and
winter hats to keep it all in.

Just dying mountains and
smoldering bus stops and
love growing in the sewers –

Nothing happened to Norma.
There was no bomb.

 
II // How I became you, or WHAT HAPPENED TO NORMA

I only became you once you were gone.
And you were only gone because you were with Norma.

Norma               Norma               Norma

Norma is you is me
and I only became you once you were gone.

I was your coffee cup.
I was your hair.
I was your leather jacket
            on the coat hook
            by the door.
I was your nose.
I was your inability to yes.
I was your cigarette.
 
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PSYCHE 2

I visit my analyst who never visits me.

Remove my boots and socks

and set my bag down in a room where two chairs have moved closer together.

Every week, the chairs; closer together by an inch.
And then, one day, further apart.

It is our seventeenth session.
I cry

Is this because there is no relationship without father?
Is this because I want to kill my father and eat his eyeballs?
Is this because I smell?
Is this because the source of all kindness is a

 “deep well of the soul and I am soulless like a death fiend fucking on my therapist’s entrails for a moment of sanctity from the goblin in the castle of EGO?”*

Lashes flutter in an open sweep of space
A weeping woman on a chair
Beneath a painting of a woman weeping

Once, I did myself in with a cross-stitch needle

That was how I prevented birth
There wasn’t much blood

The chairs walk themselves forwards
Again when I leave

A solitary moth is punching
The window by the exit door

Three wounds re-stitch themselves under my skin

Healing:

The God Asclepius

*

PSYCHE 3

When the soul separates from the body at death as if a long cord is cut, prehistorically the Death Maiden must come with her all-destroying all-creating hunger and take the soul with her to the next realm

I wrote cunt on a toilet wall and looked back on my life when I was thirteen years old.

I misspelt cunt:

Kant.

PSYCHE 16

Nada Theme 2 or “You said my name like rose bud and then you dumped me”.

Emily Dickson was proud of her writing table.  It was square. She had profound thoughts upon her writing table. I am alone. I am in deep longing. I am in pain. I am single. I am from 1830. She had many other profound thoughts which she wrote down as poems.

Walt Whitman was fond of his beard.  He whistled many songs through his beard and had profound thoughts such as I have a beard. I am alone. I am gay. I am old. I am single. I am from 1819.

How to play a piano or any other musical instrument:

Four Bar C

A conceptual idea of pain:  A chair and some rugs tossed in a corner, suspended chairs and three wires to resemble roses as in a rose is a rose is a rose and you said my name like rose bud and then you dumped me with a cat’s play thing and three oranges made of purple wax with orange stickers on them to conceptualise oranges on the upper floor of a gallery space preferably in New York or Los Angeles but alright in Cork.

An abstract painting of pain: Black swirl. Red line. Blue line. Deep vermillion smudges. Cadmium edging. Black dash. Brown dash. Black dash. Brown dash. Red dot.

A photograph of pain: A tub of water on a floor in Paris: black and white.

This is largely of quotations.

Basho was attached to his hut.

The Realms of the Unreal – Henry Darger

don’t leave me alone

I don’t remember the last time I had an adequate idea. 

most days I sit on my bed, shove my hand down my underwear, absentmindedly run my
fingers through coarse pubic hair and
“the more the mind has inadequate ideas, the more

it is subject to passive states”

my thoughts come to me only in fragments,

like the way the hot guy from the coffee shop walks— 

his arms heavy at his side and his steps

more vertical than horizontal. he’s too old for me.

and Spinoza’s conception of God is bullshit, but

I’m not smart enough to know why.

I shove over salted trail mix in my mouth littering almond skins
in the folds of my sheets as I watch

another episode of a tv show I hate or maybe I like it.

today I got jealous when a boy talked to a pretty girl,

even though I didn’t know either of them.

but she’s prettier than me I think
and I think
 my too pink lipstick was smudged

when I ordered coffee from the woman at the counter

a pullout couch is not a bed

you make me want to burn my lungs
you make me want to
spread my dusty fingers wide and
spit at the sun
paint my skin blue
and my insides black
bruise my knees
and fill my cheeks with blood as
red as your eyes’ whites

that morning
I got a sunburn from the light that entered
through your window
light so bright
our skin became pools of white:
overexposed
so I could see eddies of pink particles
swirl from your tongue
wrap themselves round my neck
settle into the intersections of our bodies

my// mine  // m y

HE WRAPS HIS THUMB AND INDEX FINGER AROUND
MY FINGERS AND BRINGS MY HAND CLOSE TO HIS FACE
“i love these,” HE SAYS
STARING AT MY FAKE NAILS, PAINTED YELLOW,
LONG AND SHARP,
HE SAYS IT AGAIN,
“i love these” AND PLACES MY FINGERTIPS AT THE
CROWN OF HIS HEAD SO I
GRAZE MY NAILS ACROSS HIS SCALP AS CURLS OF
TOO BRASSY BLEACHED BLONDE HAIR
FIND THEMSELVES TANGLED IN THE ROUNDED
SPACES BETWEEN MY FINGERS
AND HE LEANS HIS HEAD AGAINST MY HEAD
AN IMPERFECT INTIMACY //////
A CLOSENESS WITH NO CONNECTION

HE TAKES OFF MY TOP
“i’m usually so good about no sex on the first date”
“i’m usually so good about no sex on the first date”
“i’m usually so good about no sex on the first date”

inversions

some days the membrane between
myself and the sky feels thinner.

on days like these, my skin turns pink and hot and I feel too much.
your touch becomes urgent and I try to swallow your fingertips.

the veil of skin and silk does not become clearer in its thinning.
instead, cloudy and opaque, the cloth I cannot take off blinds me,

clings to my dampened skin and fills my mouth,
as I inhale your smoke and dust and fiber.