December 19th, 2006


I hate the way you rise from sleep,
making the sounds of movement
without responding. I wait, caught
between staying in my seat
or finding a way not to waste
my time. A flash of light gives
me hope, but the darkness returns.
I'm tempted to leave the lights on
all the time, like an interrogator
trying to break the prisoner's will
to live. But who wants to pay the
price? Fuck it. I'm getting the laptop.

Legitimation Crisis

From J.G. Ballard, The Atrocity Exhibition (1969)--
Elements of an Orgasm. (1) Her ungainly transit across the passenger seat through the nearside door; (2) the conjunction of aluminized gutter trim with the volumes of her thighs; (3) the crushing of her left breast by the door pillar, its self-extension as she swung her legs on to the sandy floor; (4) the overlay of her knees and the metal door flank; (5) the ellipsoid erasure of dust as her hip brushed the nearside fender; (6) the hard transept of the door mechanism within the absolute erosion of the landscape;

(7) her movement distorted in the projecting carapace of the radiator assembly; (8) the conjunction of the median surface of her thighs with the arch of the motor bridge, the contrast of smooth epithelium and corrugated concrete; (9) her weak ankles in the soft ash; 10) the pressure of her right hand on the chromium trim of the inboard headlamp; (11) the sweat forming a damp canopy on the cleavage of her blouse-- the entire landscape expired within this irrigated trench; (12) the just and rake of her pubis as she moved into the driving seat; (13) the junction of her thighs and the steering assembly; (14) the movements of her fingers across the chromium-tipped instrument heads.