Thursday, 9 November 2017

(for Lydia Lunch)

by Lorri Jackson

and none
of these things: a woman
a stone, a low keen moan
roaming the mother load, diva
on the receiving edge, a privilege
privy to piles of pathetic pilgrims
praying for the sigh that will lay them
down dead. alabaster babble with a luster
of luscious lust. the rust of a million
useless mouths; I am the prelude
to smooth rudeness, a new spoor
clinging to the door of whoredom
where you jerk to the sameness
of the fixed pout
I sing glass
missing throat, flight of cairo
o ye bride of the dead forgotten
saved in tombs
dancing tattooed thighs
in a rotting world
I am the fetid word, here and herbaceous
fertile as the fall from your flailing feet
polyethylene has nothing on me
the grand harpooness, a spark waiting
to mouth off in tongues the hurry up come
I am not a missive of submissiveness
but a weapon of torrential possibilities
So when you kiss my darkening face
o you lover of leavened needs
you with your warped visions of sameness
your fists of material drivel
don’t say my name for fear
don’t say you know it
for behind the navel is a veil
and once danced with
will leave your vain clutchings with nothing

* * * * *

"Mythmaking: I Am All" is from So What If It's True: From the Notebooks of Lorri Jackson, edited by RW Spryszak and published by Thrice Publishing 2017.

Lorri Jackson died in 1990 at the age of 28. She suffocated after injecting heroin. Some of her powerful work survives and tells her grimy truth without obvious complaint but with merciless accuracy.

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