When I made the move towards language, it then became the move towards myself, a metamorphosis in me occupied as pretentiously had I reinvented and changed my appearance, my disposition. [Clipped Wings] was a depravity, obscene, an odyssey inward to art. Though speculated as a world of sex unevolved, in the interior, there was no loss to evolution in the introvert, a poet becoming surrounded by the four walls of the night. To identify with [Clipped Wings] one must devise a garrote on their bedpost and commit to autoerotic asphyxiation. To me, it was a self-titillating torture to bare my soul, that thing that can only be found during the night. And in that thing, was the thing-in-itself, a pseudo-hero, saga-narrator bled dry on the posit of nothingness.During its composition, I can recall no days, only nights, as a scientist who reversed his circadian rhythm awaiting a naked eye comet's return, a man stricken ill with the sleeping sickness who'd become lucid when the world was not. What was seldom in me arose, what was not of my character became, what was found, was then suddenly lost. It was a gradual descent into madness, as Ezra Pound once knew, as Maurice Utrillo and though I shadowed two muses as objects, they too, were only apart of the night in my eye.
That "whore to sex," whom I consistently laid my seed deep in the infertile womb of, all over her nymphitic flesh, was only an object to me in which I composed pages of; It was easier to take her apart if she was just an object, but once you kill someone in literature, they then suffer a death outside of the novel. [Clipped Wings] was the birth of an artist, me, the birth and the maiden naked novel and it demanded the death of the muse.
She is dearly departed now, as she'd been since her hapless childhood that saw her repeatedly raped by her stepfather and his drunken friends. There was no mourning her, the only grief I feel is that I can no longer take her venus as I had before, for exploitation. The other muse, the male counterpart, was not killed off inasmuch he had no identity from the outset. Only a whiffet's shadow came of his presence.
About the birth of the artist, one ponders if the artist is born or if they are nurtured. For me, it was nurture. I can recall no abstract in my childhood, in that appalling distance I traveled to my adulthood. Miles Davis, the greatest musical genius of our human history was on the contrary a born artist. Speak of Brahm, Tchaikovsky, Schumann, Beethoven and Mozart- all secluded themselves in the interval of months to years to compose the majestic composition that they are known for today. Davis composed on que, on stage, through improvisation. His horn always pointed down to play for the world beneath him, the gift of the music that Nietzsche believed gave worth to living life and in time space, it was fated for him to find Charlie Parker on 52nd street, as it was for him to attend Julliard prior, the same alma-mater of Nina Simone. This gave way to another fate, their collaboration on the popular song yet today "My funny valentine," which was another birth of fate that allowed me to encounter their notes whiles strolling about in Evanston on a dull and clear day. I fell in love with jazz at that very moment. This was the maiden belief where I first knew of more than one fate, that one gives in to another. And this belief first appeared from its vast depth during every composite of words thenceforth.
I would have you believe that creativity isn't a void of standstill, but energy I must preserve to continue to create in that void- inspiration exist but only in the sense that it can desensitize and inspire all the same in one flicker of creativity. You have to understood that in all phosphorescence of being, one can experience furtive abortions, feel the miscarriage of single thought and the impregnation of teratomas. Adaptation is botched, the nucleus spill from its nucleic walls. This detachment from one's roots, one's descendancy is a necessity if the world is to ever come into a focal point, crystallize itself.
In all honesty, most my family and friends thought me mad when first they reviewed the completion of the composition. [Clipped Wings] is an inward charter to myself, the maiden voyage to the interior and the only until a month's follow of my release of autobiographical poetry [Self Portrait.] If the measure of madness is to look in a mirror and face the truth of self, then I submit the measure of sanity is the denial, refusal to do so, the craven stupefaction that sets none apart. This is when coexistence is at its most brutal; when identities are lost, or never found or never sought.
At the conclusion of [Clipped Wings] all fear subsided and my indifference to death soon arose in [Black Spring Bloom], in [Unsung and French Cigarettes] I relinquished all desire for one; and that was to wake up to a new day and live out my days in eventuality, in art, in indifference, I found Brahm, St. Vincent Millay, saw much more in the words of Danticat and Proust.
I invaded subjects naively discarded, I attacked and murdered all else folly. Submission was given to none, nor manumission to possibility, I hung my hat lightly on what I built, what I encountered and made my own. The metamorphosis involves freedom, an illicit solicitation of every fiber of the ideal of laissez-faire. The deepest recesses of pain is intolerable, pain is definite. Every page completed in composition of [Clipped Wings] was all pain, all sexual accumulation without the cathartic release. The night underwent the terraforming of my reality, I could no longer rearrange the stars, abduction of thought was frequent, an anguish set in that could only find compromise in the physical congress that saw the muse at the receiving end of a winged phallus swiftly flying low against the earth. Only ephemeral was coitus, is coitus, until it again must be initiated, accepted deep into the deepest funnel that flares furious the hysteric cry of the whipple-tickle. Lace-curtains were torn into shreds, despite my retreat into my atelier, exposure to the under-surface was nonfluctuating. Everything was reminiscent of a melange, nothing elementary, all convoluted. Wherein then was I lost? How far had I gone and how far had I fallen?
With the crystallizing of the world, the phosphorescence of the mind, comes a greater loneliness. I was alone before [Clipped Wings], alone in the sense of my mind was greater, and thus a threat. I had a zeal for knowledge as though a demonic possession, it consumed me throughout the days and prevented me from sleeping. This, I believe was the first stage of possession, the impressionism of the mind. When [Clipped Wings] had become, there were no more friends, distant family, nothing left as though its becoming was an nuclear fallout. I knew then, that I would have to become an expatriate to the republic. When one possesses a greater intellectual depth, they are usually envied or hated for it. One has to admit to the irony of man creating the written word and hating the other for indulging in it, obtaining it, living it. Art made me an individual but even if it hadn't, I'd have no choice but to forge myself. For every bit of self-improvement, there seems there is another created to try and curtail it.
So there is no going back, there is no way to drain the floods in the valley with only a cup. Even as those around me are in this dampened world continue to drown, or will drown, I must stay afloat, even if its in the worst way. [Clipped Wings] was my doctrine to that freedom, to the volition, the only of a few principles held dear within me where my soul is not a constant but a flicker. Personal history was collected in retrospect, brought to discourse and became a dissertation to the start of my autobiographical autoeroticism, the opening volume to naked composure and the naked novels that will come of them and commence until such time I meet my biographer or life will end in a sudden instance as not to allow me the luxury of prophylaxis. I mention autoeroticism (immense romance) to signify its life; all things mechanical, as sex without connection, as the human heart, is bound to fail and begin in blots of muscle with an expiration date.
Black Canaries fly high in the sky of my dreams and black Hummingbirds fly low, Policeman's Helmets and Lady Slippers fed on till they wilt and pulled back into the scorched earth. All growth is an arbitrary mystery, an enigma where things stand without explanation and where they meet their demise in the same manner. The origins of the world are littered with humored flexibility that abides if we are to do the same, if the wretched sporadically spill from the gutters into the navel of a gaped umbilical. The other side of me forever asleep in utero is survived from the entrails left upon my embryonic fusion, as today lives on the stigma of a parasitic twin. The here, the now, the present, is the effervescence of what goes into intimacy and what comes from the hypodermic injection. Romance becomes as rebirths becomes, when a death has occurred, when the apart becomes departed, then is exhumed and resurrected on the mountainside where God was said to have died.
When I first thought to encounter the thing-in-itself, it was only a thing, with anger that raged deeply, to the lowest poles of me to the most northernly. It acts not by sequence, by idiocracy, but wayward, as a boat adrift in the sea. See not in my own eye I cannot, fear not my own stare, I cannot momentarily, with even fall and pull I rest my soul and heart to stop. Take away my life and I live, live in this room, still hanging over this bed, the cat that holds the ghost of no man, no woman, only its ghastly spirit. My exhale beginning to be free of my lungs, I hold captive what has come into me freely, naturally. Vanish into me, for you are what I restrain and force to beg, the halt of air as I suspend, dew falling from between my legs. Beg not, ambiance of ambient air, beg not, for you will be free soon, and I too, free to loom in my own vacancy.
In my lonesome, I've found a home, a home that the homeless should find it if they yearn for homes, born into this home, alone. I remain, ever silent, as silence themes itself as my God, broken, it will flee and lonesomeness will conquer lonely and conquered too, will be the windless days, the motionless nights, the woe of the rain as it cries all it may in a lifetime. It is a jealous deity, aloneness, coexisting losely, if ever beneath the wells of wantonness, beneath. And I lover, splayed as a lifeless odalisque in its very phlegm of madness if ever if is it to retreat.
This celestial sphere knows not what becomes of her, rises to all vacancy. In the midday, when the wind rising into the sky in equidistant, as she raises her skirt, one touches the convulsing Euclidean clit of the ecosensual, ecosexual whore. I kiss day and night in their fits of polarity. Her double is transposed, transmogrified, transitory, transmuted to the chasm of trans-notion, volatile, violent, vulnerable- she may be in every minute mile, to whom all humanity is dreaming to reconcile. She allows one to only enter her only by night, penetrate deep only when the soul awakes, then sleeps beneath the anonymous lover until day to fight the hankering rape.
Time and direction, imitation through the ornament, the filigree accosted by a departed expression
Take words from my tongue and send them waywardly naked be they, be that as it may, may nothing be as bold to direct them through time, time directs, beneath it be me, as I be, a naked stanza, taken by time, directed in time, never there in the delay. Measure the scarf which asphyxiated Isadora Duncan, the drink that befell Dylan Thomas, the Seine that hosts Celan's eternal sleep, the pathogenic consumption that closed the films of Jean Vigo; in that measure, I find no ill-measure.
No algorithm is formulated as I sleep in motion, I am a finished thing, the extension of what was and never before, to exist nevermore in any other facility that facilitates an artificial growth.
We must all suffer from time to time for intimacy; that is the first lesson we all learn but only in the cruelest of ways. And given over to literature, intimacy as a centerfold, the artist must suffer a twofold torture, a thousand deaths into the netherworld where another death awaits. There is a shortage in the blood supply, arteries defunct to this extent, purposeful limbs ischemic. Civilization owns a limit and a set catastrophe to decay but the individual never decays unless in the will of art. The great physical explosion of accidental life sets apart and makes possible the multitudes of physical explosions caused by our own titillation, our self-malformation, the altering of our integration to an ideal of art, ideal of equilibrium, an ideal of posterity, of a specific pertinence. If art is to capture anything, anything at all, it is the sclerosis embedded in our vertebrae by evolution, the lobotomies endured and cerebral decay. What may be faulty can no longer claim its place yet consist only in its inconsistencies. In that night when [Clipped Wings] first begin to take form, I was given the gift of the night; then this too, became a gift in its own.
Dontrell Lovet't
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