Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Eyes Missing, or Stuck Open or Closed
Oofdah, clobbered on multiple fronts (and may be the rest of the week), though I need ask, POTUS 12, tenor has changed past couple days, time for real shittiness, yes? Oh, and today's pukestorm, jesusfuck. Other than that links Yo La Tengo songs and a poem is all I got.
Opportunities. Hiatturd sees an opportunity. Romney and opportunism. Ryan and Rahm. Karen Lewis. UPDATE! This. I'd forgot the unbump I get when I praise teachers as I did yesterday, admitting my bias. Growth is the problem. Politicopsychopathology. Great minds and all. Illtophay only up 1? Woe on campus. On the USMNT v Jamaica game. On United's season possibly being over. Fuck Notre Dame, fuck the ACC. Sebald for those of you who do. Hymn to the Neck. Can visionary poetry be edited? Delia Derbyshire. Whale Season.
TOURING THE DOLL HOSPITAL
Why so many senseless injuries? This one’s glass teeth
knocked out. Eyes missing, or stuck open or closed.
Limbs torn away. Sawdust dribbles onto the floor
like an hourglass running out. Fingerless hands, noses
chipped or bitten off. Many are bald or burnt. Some,
we learn, are victims of torture or amateur surgery.
Do dolls invite abuse, with their dent-able heads,
those tight little painted-on or stitched-in grins?
Hurt me, big botched being, they whine in a dialect
only puritans and the frequently punished can hear.
It’s what I was born for. I know my tiny white pantaloons
and sheer underskirts incite violation. Criers and crib-
wetters pursue us in dreams, till we wake sweat-
drenched but unrepentant, glad to have the order
by which we lord over them restored. Small soldiers
with no Geneva Conventions to protect them,
they endure gnawing, being drooled on, banishment
to attics. Stained by cough syrup, hot cocoa, and pee,
these “clean gallant souls” wear their wounds as martyrs’
garments. We owe them everything. How they suffer
for our sins, “splintered, bursted, crumbled . . .”
Every bed in the head replacement ward is occupied tonight.
Let’s sit by the legless Queen doll’s tiny wheelchair
and read to her awhile if she wishes it. In a faint
voice she requests a thimbleful of strong dark tea.