Notes on Artaud and Wilde:

I’m talking about terror, people. The thrill of the corpse. Yes, the thrill of the corpse. I’m not shocking anyone by saying that there are bodies piled in my backyard. So why should it shock you that two sisters are joined at the skull—and they lived like that for a long time—and the Discovery channel is featuring a special on their lives? Why are you so interested? Why don’t you join your skull to the skull of a tree? See how it feels. Will you think tree-thoughts, or will the tree think man-thoughts? And if you both fall in the forest, who is to blame? And why does everything keep piling up?

What happens when our bodies fall off and we pick them up and examine them? What happens when we yank the story out of our bodies, page by page? Artaud, you know what I’m talking about.

Free your bruises. Free the gashes, the cuts, the broken bones. Free your fecal matter. Free your arms from their sockets. Sing through your pores. Sing with your legs like a cricket. Cut off your feet and bang them against a tree. Yeah. Fucking pound them against a tree. Wear your small intestines like a necklace. Wear your intestines like a noose. Hold your nose to your ear like a walkie talkie—staticy, isn’t it? Fondle your ear like a labia. Give your heart a mouth. Hell, give everything a mouth. Be a million mouths, then gag each one of them. Spit out the gags. Retch.

I’m talking Demolition, people. Ripping out the infrastructure, frame by frame. Faucets that don’t pour. Drains that don’t drain. The wall is a ceiling. The window’s a door. I’m talking about renegotiating a place to live in. And as for Death? Well, when is Death not breathing on us?

Try this.

Pull a handful of your thoughts out and plant them. It will be your thought-garden. When everything’s dry, water the thoughts. Piss on them.
So what am I talking about? Well, Mister, I’m talking about being alone, as alone as the skull sisters (yes, that’s the paradox, isn’t it?). I’m talking about the hands that sprout from our hands—how they’re always reaching for someone else.

We’re so alone, it’s claustrophobic.

So alone, we can’t stop calling people. Hello? Hi. Oh it’s you. This is the forfeit. This is what we give up. I want to call you so much that I make my mouth a mouth. I make my eyes, eyes. Talk to me, Sir, teeth to teeth. No, I’m not burning the tips of my fingers off. No, I’m not popping my toes like painkillers. No. No. No. I’m utter negativity. Let’s fantasize it. Let’s throw ourselves on the stage. I’ll be the lover. You’ll be the beloved. We’ll just aside each other for as long as we can stand it.

And desire? Oh desire desire desire. I’m talking clumps of desire. I’m talking desire-machines. I’m talking two-by-two into the ark and not looking back. Swaying in the chains. Drunk. I’m talking into it and out of it. I’m talking through-lines and all the wretched wonderful paradoxes you can think of. Desire desire desire. I’m talking big fists punched in small walls—all those holes. Functional holes. Holes you can put things in.

So Artaud. Where are you in all this? And Wilde. Where’d you go? I think I’ve talked myself out of both of your beds.

Oscar, I love Greek boys too.

And Artaud, cruelty trumps joys all the time.

But boys, don’t be disappointed. I’ll put you in the ring and watch you wrestle it out. But boys, it’s fixed. It’s the only way I know how to do things. Both of you are too creamy white to wear me. And you’re both too dead.