Deleuze kicks Proustian ass!

“Then we learn how to make use of other beings: frivolous or cruel, they have ‘posed before us,’ they are no longer anything but the incarnation of themes which transcend them, or the fragments of a divinity which is powerless against us.” – Proust and Signs (Gilles Deleuze)

On to the next one, on to the next…

Publishing Possibilities

A press that is run from Hong Kong has requested to see the full manuscript of my novel, The Former Things Have Passed Away, based on a full synopsis and the first 3 chapters. This is only the second time such a request has been made, so wish me luck. I have published it as an e-book on Amazon for the Kindle in the meantime, as I continue to seek a paper-format publisher. Sometimes I almost give up, and then I don’t, and then I do, and then I don’t. And then I do a crazy dance in between.

In Motion

Oh mountain cut into the sky,
looming large,
you recede further and further
with each step, step, step

Dropped there
out of nowhere,
more present than
I or he or she
because you cannot move
of your own accord,
nor can that rock, that log,
that tree

You move because I walk,
I blink, I think
upon you mountain,
monstrous and free,
immoveable in yourself,
while all of me
is constantly in motion
in thought,
in breath,
in sleep.

Face

Face reflected on bathroom doorknob,
distorted like memory.
Writing “I Love Mama!” on edge of sink –
when and with what instrument?
Memory prodded fails.

What has distorted self
on rusted doorknob
to do with etched words
on edge of sink?

Nothing. Nothing
but an echo
of latent sentiment.

Kindle Book

My novel, The Former Things Have Passed Away,is now available for purchase as an e-book at the Amazon Kindle store. If you own a Kindle or plan to, check it out! Here is the link:

The French Guy (Novel Excerpt)

He was naked, on top of the sheets, I underneath. He reached over my body and switched the lights on. No, no shut them off, I grumbled. In the dark, always in the dark. I thought of how he couldn’t come, not even after he rubbed himself, for over twenty minutes. I poked my head out of the sheets, squinting at the bright light.

I need a fag. I need to smoke a fag. Absolutely. (His favorite word – absolutely).

You have to have one?

Yes yes.

I don’t have a lighter.

I will go in the kitchen then. Where is it?

Turn right in the hallway, first door on the left. And please, be very quiet.

Will you be my friend?

What kind of friend?

A friend. You know, with respect. We can have sex sometimes, but always respect.

We’ll see.

But can’t you tell me now? Will you be my friend?

Let’s just take today, and see what tomorrow brings. We never know what tomorrow will be.

I’ll go light my fag now.

Put your pants on, just in case. I hope the alarm doesn’t go off. It’s so loud. It’ll wake my flat mates.

It can’t, it won’t. I have a smoke alarm in my flat too.

When he opened the door again, he was not quiet. He slid off his pants and stood there, stark naked, covering his member with one hand. He shrugged his shoulders and stood there uncomfortably, removed his hand and looked at me as if to say – so what do you think?

With the lit cigarette between his fingers, he lay back down on top of his side of the sheets. My naked body still underneath.

I need an ashtray. But you don’t have one do you?

He reached for my plastic cup, the one with the screwing lid. The lid was screwed shut with water underneath. He unscrewed it.

Here, I’ll use this. What do you use this for?

It’s to keep water by my bed, to take the pill in the morning, and some pills to heal my aching stomach.

Look, there’s cigarette ash floating in there. See, some guy has already been here before me.

There had been Anh Tien, the Vietnamese waiter I met a couple of weeks before. He had not tampered with my plastic cup. He did not smoke, and neither did I.

That’s not true. Where? I don’t see any shreds.

Oh yes.

The smoke. The alarm. Be careful. The alarm is awfully loud. Please be done.

Then everyone would know. Everyone would know.

Impotence

Outgrowth of
wish bones
feathers
twigs and stones

I wouldn’t have known

if I hadn’t spread
my legs
wide open

Mother – cut them out
but make certain
I don’t feel it

Cut out the hard stuff
not the goo
I’ll touch and taste
and if it stains
wash it away

Cut out the hard stuff
but not the feathers –
they tickle and delight

Cut all
but the feathers.