Yin/Yang [by Carmen Racovitza]

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rectal night. night of taken flesh.
and hymen shadows touch her home abdomen [fishy].
in notices, scar baths twitch under Virginia smell flinging scar worms that
masturbate…..Orchid carps move around loose paint: grape dye. Cho’s
strawberry face … made up of orgasms. After going evenings, epidermis naturale
had peeled away leaving behind little unison bodies of clean skin, tiny flop poses
agreeably tugged away by elephantiasis combing.
Cho’s time- smudged.
Cho with his peeled allantois deep into violent perforations pasted-on like
beestings. out there milky umbilical aniliidae wiggling fetal, bitch-kicking tops
touch gossipy virginal girl-like creatures wearing goosepimplish Kyon hair. and
fresh smiles, too. Kyon hairs ripe like mini shit sexily under the enamored cry of
the peacock. the gaping picturing of the one hunting porcupine Kyon. first air.
she smears her Kyon flesh with black polish while the firecrackers of her earrings
sparkle dimly.
it’s sometimes. Cho finds his war. Cho’s angels are better. when polished. but a
little scared, too.
she gasps her struts…. Judas spines…. mere Jesuits eels .
Later, her signature whispering lies dangling …cracked dots tore away miniature
Hells. that naked titillation. with much pink between her fresh nails. with mouths
awe-struck.
thinking of home, between cups of South tea…
a necro-puppet that wonders.
she winks a war-cry under Electro-shocked crude jaundiced muscles

Red Light/ Blue Light 2 [by Carmen Racovitza]

Soot drains into Yi. fifteenth time he listens, he tries and then Yi invites. Sometimes he feels himself sea-sunken and mouths a nuclear Blue. Old, gentle , but scattered eyeballs smooth him with nematode dark touches. Yi - as cock Technicolor … Yi’s Dali tugging armpits. Yi’s tang’s endangered. moans over grins. hole. he gutters the orifice.

the pain hole inhabitants are mere toothless warheads… twittering eyes, damp petrified heels wearing blinking broom sandals against rain. all tap days welcome moss. Jesus glistens…as his roommate, does robot things manically with mahogany red arms ….a slip-sloppy and dripping family dugong places motherhood images in conversation: Yes, flabby foreheads ……me.] flops of clock slither enthusiastically. Genocide fingering….

a remote cloud Vomits orange rain , defenseless, Remote Yes, her place…no urinal. women masturbating, he realizes that the motions cash. funny. her Well…since that signal tint opening …a Sweaty greased desert. wiry… heavy for Oh……. Yi apartment ….the old knobs of her blown ganglia door impregnating a Grapevine Kleenex….his inodorous armpits. and his dirt. Breath, apartment, pictures, some help.

affectionately singing a lively song inside the mustard meatus. Atomic thrusts. some cilia on bear his tune.

The acid pop mother develops Radioactive Meltdown stardust. affectionately. she mutters music in barnacles , barnacles of information, floor. she gets the green detector. kittens. up her spine. having quivers = blunt enjoyment for violent puppies hidden in the upper throat / upper Sometimes sideways, puppets -in an abstract threat- flee into Terrified loveseat wombs breathing small images / then Public drips and her closet Chrysanthemums look as thoughts do meet inside my relieved light/ enjoy / look Gershwin make-up dancing away with pictures of forgotten fuckers. cling smiles to new directions, you, Mother Vacant. her clicking Flop. in waves her eyeball gestures look a bit emp[ty empty you leaving that lounge, you with a Twitch. mouth. Yi says, never use the aluminum flutters . others, perhaps.

finally twisted : I’m her dance, her pumps that make beast seeds of Drip paint. you, kind mother, with the dugong gone out and long forgotten. the book lingers moistened by its mammal bits and face. Flip.

tiny, trivial Morse lot ….made up of pile piss composite; eyes gaping at Yi lip. the Yi air. remote. the Yi of Vivisection. remotest. out. Fred’s awry, secluded, little time fucks the familiar smell of earthworms waiting for the hand to paint a home… lonely treaties/treatises show Yi finding his place in the code. In the sweaty, dutifully naked cold, the inhabitants piece frigid lonesome kisses while rains are closed. lonesomely, too. skin islands on faces move to contour wet, fresh, newly-born , freed smiles

drip drip drip

Disembowelment 2 [ by Carmen Racovitza]

swim thumping She is, protrusion submerge aware of regeneration, looks at silo in crude lead Iseul [her lips / immalleable warheads] …transrealist face… and her doll head accepts the shelter vortex in her synthetic brain … all piece bastions of resentment resurface. particularly from mouths.

[No duck-and-cover spleen. pulls serrated Iseul with insatiable tinkle eyes that Jab. can’t…. This can’t. the sun)… and consequently feeding spleen. rudy rucker. fork feel 2955 and Eyes work now…like infant steel flowers. infant feelings Gaping South are discreetly put in order. detached. cells of been babies… garbage is found between arms] alive] Kyung-Soon – the cowboy. Iseul, Iseul. fetal octopus and warheads hot doll picture on the wall with her second parallel crippled elongated limbs. left Residual , a tiny face-down unfolds brutally interrupted meiosis. straddling slits. birth, sudden bassinette processes / Twist.

postsingular. shoving out familiar. eyelash Ride. hylozoic. focused death. death distant. slit. of carved light. .

Iseul’s sun-peeled briars on crisp flesh-beast, Iseul concurrently punches death on the back of found centrifuge. fashionable glassy vaginas on sale.

She always used lymphoid orgasm. anatomically She had encased cunt,
a kitchen.
nano nano nano. Before urethra. reattached membranes. armored before cacophonic fantasizing, the bowl, her death legs.

these WWII wishes about steel holes . Instead of tubes in which nuclear spleen of surgical bodies mix trimorphically: correct body countries give much Red cool breeze along the thighs. sleep (which is misshapen regeneration) eats up Placenta slivers of chorionic canon, says she.

talk gunmetal smile / throes missile sweaty bomb in the Distance. end is fixated for Mutant wide ends.
Iseul makes violent life patterns, variants of what she knew best: the dim Twist.

her finger in the purple air was suddenly a Bullet shunting twigs in the Cryogenic
aerosol tissue.
Smile / immaleable warhead / a dilapidated Sigh. nano, nano, drippy, alternate breathless patterns complete the little coax / use sucked egg-splattered mites along your lines //

I lost the images// Jab. turns / stops thought, eyes-- twitching dead slithers -
Boring plague.
Suddenly, thick , dystrophic nanomachine babies fill the blood hole

en-route indifferently

Disembowelment

Smile sun-peeled eyes--though communist curtains unfurl. Swathe-optic vortex cacophonic, dim. Eye unfolds maggoty lips twitching in a steel garbage bin. Mutant babies swim face-down in gutters. Bullet hole feeding tubes line their pasty limbs. Monster bandicoots. Placenta sucked of its chorionic villi. Shuddering fetal membranes. This is South Korea: dead meiosis-bait. Cryogenic aerosol. Residual plague. The end of all ends.


Iseul wishes her uterus was a fashionable punch bowl, ca. 1955, made out of surgical steel and briars. Intricate, prickly death wishes encased by thick bastions of steel.

She believes in the body trimorphic: birth, regeneration, death. In no particular order. She hungers for regeneration. To complete the processes of life and death concurrently.

While Iseul is fishing out a piece of drippy, egg-splattered garbage from her cunt, she pictures her last lover, Kyung-Soon, straddling her vagina(back when it longed to be a nuclear warhead, breathlessly en-route for the sun). Ride it, American cowboy. Ride. Iseul wants to feel the thumping knees of kids in distant countries as they duck-and-cover behind the dilapidated twigs of her misshapen legs. Suddenly, Kyung-Soon stops shunting projectile warheads into her missile silo slit. He turns, instead, to talk about the weather. Boringly familiar.

.

[it’s hot--we can’t go on like this for too long]
get your head out of my gash; then you’ll feel the crisp, cool

breeze of April around your orchis flowers.

On second thought, put it in deeper. One must submerge before one resurfaces. You have to see death before there is light.

.

Iseul tries to stay focused, to coax the armored protrusion back into her hot lead canon. Instead, she becomes fixated on images of cutlery and dolls that tinkle with anatomically correct pee-pees. Gaping mouths.

[No use being philosophical, Iseul. Just hold me in your octopus arms]
But they’re detached. Distant. Not parallel to my body
[so reattach them]
I can’t. They’re just slivers now…and babies…and my death elongated like a wide smile in some violent centrifuge.
[Then I’m afraid we both lost the game of staying alive]


Kyung-Soon leaves Iseul to pick the glassy eyelash mites from her eyes which have found their home between her serrated canthi slits. So much for pseudo-American ride-me-long-time cowboy.

Iseul, having been left to fantasize about Kyung-Soon’s gunmetal flesh-beast, buckles into the throes of a spiritual orgasm. She begins to feel this insatiable urge to grab a two-tined carving fork from the kitchen.

.

Before she’s aware of it, Iseul is off shoving the immalleable protrusion into her cervix (which used to work as a makeshift bomb shelter for crippled veterans back in WWII). Jab. Twist. Jab. Twist. She pulls out a fork-prodded spleen. Red blood cells burst as lymphoid tissue slithers down her sweaty thighs. Sigh. It is over. She makes a crude infant out of her spleen. The spleen baby coos affectionately as Iseul gives it a bassinette to sleep in, and a little doll that pee-pees accurately through a tiny hole in its synthetic urethra.

Red Light. Blue light.

The inhabitants of Daejeon city are lonesome. Blue. Remote islands of sea-sunken eyes, blinking Help in Morse code.



In his muskrat hole apartment, Yi listens to Seomoon Tak while fingering a naked light socket. She’s singing about Chrysanthemums and things that look like her cunt on a frigid day. Public urinal. Smoke detector. Genocide kittens. UN peace treaties gone awry.
While masturbating, Yi enjoys tugging at the wiry curlicues of his pubes. Sweaty cilia glistens on a pile of damp moss. When the pain surges through his body, Yi pictures himself in the rain, tap dancing all over Fred Astaire as he’s blown to bits by nuclear warheads. Sometimes Yi pictures Fred’s face dripping into a Dali composite; an acid bath clock in the middle of a secluded desert. Drip. Drip. Drip. There goes an eyeball. An abstract starburst of nipple. The tang tint of red quivers off of an upper lip.



It rains a lot in South Korea. Too much. Guppies pop out of drains. Old women paint their foreheads with war paint. The buses arrive late. Always stall. Piddle in the rain. To pass the time waiting for the bus to take him to his mother’s in Daegu, Yi fucks a busty dugong with his eyes closed.



Don’t look. Don’t look, you fucker. The beast drips mustard seeds out of its orifice while Yi pumps it with an aluminum robot cock he’s affectionately named Radioactive Meltdown. Sometimes the dugong flops off to meet another dugong, leaving Yi wet and lonely again. Sometimes he invites a friend to participate in trivial conversation:Yes, it really does rain too much here. Yes, my family is endangered.No, I don’t fancy a Gershwin tune.



The threat of music lingers in the air. Atomic puppies practice violent squat thrusts. Piss sideways in the dark.



Yi tries to picture his mother instead of the sweaty mammal orifice. He imagines her opening the door to her tiny broom closet apartment on the fifteenth floor. Vomit bats cling to the empty caverns of her mouth as she smiles a familiar, toothless grin. Come in, Yi. Bats and small, defenseless ronion flee in all directions, finally freed from their musky imprisonment.

Yi’s mother welcomes him into her flabby, sea-wrecked arms. He can smell the barnacles she’s hidden away inside the under-folds of her armpits. Terrified womb fish. Fishy others. Puke green ship captains with scattered eyeball ganglia craftily twisted into Grapewine knots.



Breathe, Yi. Breathe. He’s forgotten how to signal for help. Grasp affectionately. Kiss her slip-sloppy armpits.



Yi’s mother smiles again as she motions for him to sit next to her roommate, Jesus Christ, who lounges on an old loveseat examining the family dog’s gaping rectum. He proceeds to pull a book out of its hole. How-to Vivisection. You never know when you’ll need this kind of information, he mutters into a petrified pooch meatus. Mother waves her hand manically. The old boys-will-be-boys gesture. A twittering of Technicolor stardust flutters out. Yi realizes, for the first time, mother is wearing heavy make-up. Her eyes are greased with tar and soot. I’m going out. The little bean-nighe in her throat moans enthusiastically. [I needs to make some cash. You didn’t know? Oh, that’s funny. How long have I been doing this? Well…since you were five. After your father– the nematode king–left me.]



The soggy dugong, having relieved himself dutifully, slithers away from the bus stop. Annyong-hi kashipshio [see you again]. Bus stop cold. Vacant. Yi wants to feel the enjoyment of slithering out of his own skin and into the cold gutters. He imagines finger puppets will dance out of his mouth. Flip. Flop. Twitch. The blunt knob of his dick will smooth out into earthworm clitellum, impregnating a clump of moistened dirt. And he will say, with all thoughts of mother aside,
there’s no place like home…
there’s no place…no home…

a clicking of heels and then

Yin: Fish Yang: Worm

The Jesuits have taken over South Korea. Kyon is scared. Orchid firecrackers of Hell. The first war-cry of violence is a thank you, Christ. At home, Cho decides to paint her face with a freshly torn virginal hymen–she says it’s better than strawberry dye. It lasts longer, but it smells like shit after a while. Later on in the evening, Kyon peacock struts in her new elephantiasis leggings while Cho tugs at the fresh umbilical cord dangling between her legs. This means war. The first battle cry flings allantois into the air. The second, a ripe banana is peeled of its jaundiced epidermis. Kyon notices Cho isn’t wearing nail polish. She spots tiny dots of dirt under her cracked nails. On top of that, her black licorice bitch-kicking boots are smudged.

Cho, you really should go wash yourself

[Why? I’m clean. Even if I do smell a bit fishy]

In the evenings, when Cho’s out hunting for fresh bodies, Kyon smokes weak Virginia Slims and gossips to the girls about her flesh factory–how she wears earrings made out of freshly peeled llama skins. She’s going au naturale, as they say. The socialites’ tea cups twitch agreeably in unison with their spines, mouths gasp awe-struck and flop around in mini Asian carp orgasms. Electro-shocked eels of titillation. After the soiree, they will go home and masturbate, picturing Judas in one of Cho’s signature pieces. He’s always in the same pose, fetal, ashe smears grape jelly over his gaping rectum while sexily whispering where’s the beef?

Sometimes, when Kyon wrestles naked angels in a cup of twisty aniliidae, she finds herself enamored of the porcupine hairs on Cho’s legs. The deep pink scar shadow of her neck She watches the muscles of her abdomen sometimes, the loose wiggling of goosepimplish necro-puppet flesh–their upraised perforations form crude pasted-on smiles. Sometimes they wink at her, squirting forth an acid bath of lochia and milky beestings. Sometimes Kyon wonders why she’s wasting her time combing out the dead meal worms from Cho’s hair. She’s not getting any prettier.