When mechanics meet dialectics, it’s hard to tell who or what is screwed and who or what is screwing. Our vulgarity is in keeping with our source text.
How hypocritical to go upstairs with a an you don’t want to fuck, leave the one you do sitting there alone, and then, in a state of great excitement, fuck the one you don’t want to fuck while pretending he’s the one you do. That’s called fidelity. That’s called civilization and its discontents.
And pages and pages later, we learn that the relation between mind and body is more complex than simple inversion of do and don’t.
Some tall thin poets write short fat poems. But it’s not a simple matter of the law of inversion. In a sense, every poem is an attempt to extend the boundaries of one’s body. One’s body becomes the landscape, the sky, and finally the cosmos. Perhaps that’s why I often find myself writing in the nude.
Fear of Flying by Erica Jong who leads us to muse about the metaerotics of wearing a silk dressing gown and using a fountain pen.
And so for day 1672