Assembled from the script: Bataille
No chapel, no wounded-soldier-in-the-last-scene sacrament,
no field of windswept grass where lovers walk, as the background
music swells to tell us
full communication resembles flames—the electrical
fence already surrounds your found object,
which I'm too afraid to fondle. I'd be pitting water against glass.
Even to imagine you
nearly in my hands, and my skin is a pox of impact,
while the wild horse silhouetted on the sun-blanched horizon
merely kicks hooves
and we swoon to that
discharge of lightening. Its attraction
too flawless.
I am nearly sick with child-haste. Where have I put her this
time? Doll in a box. Doll
in my lips, belly, breasts?
She's gone. What will I offer you now? Nervous as a kneeling
supplicant
at the bishop's door. Bishop
in both of us, brooding, turning
his eyes round me as though I were the trick of perspective. Every
object I am
is the rupturing it is built on
—still you don't understand, though I come dressed
in several hints. My little song-skirt, call it rhythm-to-tear-
its-own-seams with,
set to the tone poem of odorous ripening. I make you
a little noise in my throat, under-heard,
which increases its intensity in proportion
to my feigned disinterest.
While you watch the mesmerizing spin
of a bikewheel that's just tumbled us, muddy, into a roadside
ditch
that had hidden from us
its depth.
The script: full communication resembles flames—the electrical discharge of lightening. Its attraction is the rupturing it is built on, which increases its intensity in proportion to its depth