Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Trapped Underground Absorbing the Silent Fucking of the Dead


Daniel Borzutzky

I know the dead silently fuck once more learning how to suffer
— Joyce Mansour (translated by Serge Gavronsky)

Because the dead felt ashamed of dying in the walls

Because the dead felt ashamed of the flowers that covered their graves

Because there was a war in my skin

My skin blemished with the guts that dripped from the rotten chickens hanging above me

Because we were trapped underground absorbing the silent fucking of the dead

Because the living felt ashamed of the dead trapped in the walls

Because the sky was so full of gas and we could not see the moon

There were pictures of naked bodies drawn on the chalkboards of the rooms they buried us in

Every once in awhile, they poured milk through the hole in the wall and we cupped our hands and drank it even though it was sour and made us vomit

We were rotting under the florescent lights that covered our bodies

Because X had no chest they filled her legs with honey and set her outside on the lawn

We watched the ants devour her

We watched foam come out of her skin and the room grew so humid

Slippery bodies we fell over ourselves and got hungrier as we watched the ants nibble her flesh

Y told the story of how X had an orgasm in the pond

She let the water rush in between her legs and rubbed her pelvis against the rocks

Her hair went out to sea

Her tingly skin her pulsating skin the wavering beat of her heart

They watched this and when she came out of the water they put her in a room to examine what beast had bitten her

They determined she had been bitten by crustaceans that had lodged themselves into her thigh and abdomen

There was no choice but to penetrate her more deeply

Funnels of foam

Funnels of ants

Squeezed into her orifices from multiple angles while the computer systems analyzed her pulse, her blood, her metabolism

They forced the minions to reproduce her body

Twenty six reproductions of her body placed in a holding cell multiplied in a systematic fashion

We were commanded not to speak while there were bodies rowing through the excrement of the flooded streets of our neighborhood

We were commanded to be silent while there were comrades choking on flesh sobbing on blood puking greenish bacon

The autopsy revealed the systematic fabrication of the clitoris

The names of our wounds were displayed on banners or painted on our bodies

The names of the corpse-emperors and their vampiry poems were pasted to our bodies

Soil on our lips raw meat on our tongues jars of mayonnaise to aliment to lubricate to bluster

It wasn’t the fault of the warden when he got an erection

A scabby finger accidentally patted his crotch

He didn’t mean to force the scabby finger onto his crotch

With a dark sheet he covered the face and body to whom the scabby finger belonged and he helped the scabby finger undo his zipper

What were the scabs on the finger from

He thought about the scabs on her finger

He thought about the blood trapped in her finger and it was not his fault he kept his erection

He thought: ejaculate and stuff her flesh with worms

He thought: reach the end and fill her mouth with foam

He held his breath as the moment reached and when it passed he thought:

The bodies buried in the wall the gutter the earth: the present is always the past for them

They must be killed again and again


  1. Bet Dan's really a lot of fun when he's drunk.

  2. i listened to the blonk et al "quiet neighborhood" - i wouldn't call it music, exactly, but it was interesting

    i read the borzutsky piece from which the title of today's post is taken - i would call it poetry, but i didn't like it - it is offensive and disgusting and morbid and perverse and proud of itself for being this things - sure, like whitman said, we all contain multitudes, but sometimes silence is golden - maybe for somebody else on some other occasion it would have been a good use of their time to read it

    some poetry i read today - not for the first time - that i did regard as a good use of my time was williams "this is just to say" - it has its own wikipedia entry, i have just discovered - i read it in conjunction with camille paglia's thoughts on it in "break blow burn"

    over the weekend i saw the movie "noah" with russell crowe as the title character - liberties were taken with the story, some of which were ingenious - this morning i saw the preview for the new disney "jungle book" - it is clear that the approach and mood are far different from the earlier animated version from decades ago - also this a.m. in the paper i saw banx's cartoon - his middleclass englishman is sitting in his living room armchair reading the paper - "batman v. superman v. critics"

    i have just begun reading "the ghost in my brain" by clark elliott