Marcel vile carcass-I love you like hell Marcel
STREET HAUNTING WITH/AS THE BARONESS, c. 1919 NEW YORK 132 Another tired and tiring day of body selling art disgust. I am precariously situated-this rim of terri?c desolation in this city of America, with its unshackeledness by past! I am nervesick! Skimming the fouled streets of Greenwich Village in blacknight the stench of uncollected garbage newly cut wood steamy stinking tar ?lls the air-New York-?lled with in?uenza rot-expands with Europe desolately warruined.133 The sky is still above, breathing heaving Washington Square. The city bounces-horizontals and verticals-vertiginously. Fresh raw ef?uence of New York, I linger around the Brevoort-that booze and coffee?lled cellar where ideas spring from nothing.134 Breathing fetid air I whiff boozy bourbon emanating from the Brevoort’s riotously noisy basement room behind a window opened-a crack (the arshole of art-commerce, American-style-everything anything sold here for cash). Marcel’s whinny laugh emanates and I descend into this drink-drunk pit. I-a living tragedy but spunky and af?uent with life- proffer myself whole legs and madness as he moves leftward ho towards that pirate Francis P. leaning on Man Ray a besotted group-ugly-and they run from me! Signing their names they are artists while I starve-prostitute streetwalking thing in their eyes. I pass out again into gleaming streets after spit rain-what a whirlpool I am-they want my corpse to shave and dangle forth as DadaMama but not my lifeforce-too hot to touch too living Dada.135 My skin, my heart, my bones, my soul strange with beauty wears itself outside-head shaved-like having a new sexexperience-tea ball necklace, coal scuttle helmet, postage stamp ornamented sendmeback, and my redleashed dogs-curs with mangy skin-my only friends who never waver-I am theatre and spectator in one-only not the author.136 I am a human organism artist as inside-out body-why can’t they see? Assembled. Bloodchurning sense swinging chaos target spot shot scale ?x wheelturn life. They pollute my causeless purity-though, yes, I am a prostitutionally idle pain?lled holdout from circumstanced world. Betwixt sensescalelifeswing bloodswirl. My craziness consists in its absence- 137 They simper over sexdrawings write on me while I starve. Greenwich Village dark and shining and hands reach my way as I traipse thinking they are worse off than I-crazy, some limbsoff warsoldiers reaching with nothing in the air-I give them my good grief-login coins pressed into pockets (no palms) and pass on knowing that no dinner will be mine as I starve. For pride I will
4.19 Jessie Tarbox Beals, Street Scene at Night (the Brevoort Hotel), c. 1915. Museum of the City of New York; Gift of Mrs. Alexandra Alland ().
I ask you why I am mad-ruthlessly lonely by inner rendering of outer circumstance-within commonplace life mesh-while they cavort scrupulously making machine sex dolls
not go back to M-F-MR who laughed and rid themselves of my fearmuted body-they drowning their fear in pictures and booze never talking about war but always meaning it.138 I wear the carnage on this body too limbson but raunchy stretching sadness-tragedy is written on me-stigmatizing me-people, dull as they are perceive it.139 I am the vile carcass not Marcel who laughs up his sleeve tongue in cheek largely through the glass of his own fear masquerading as bravado sexmachine pinioning me like an entomologist’s needle against the landscape of his dreams.140 I am lived war-machine for living-he is safe, moneymongering from desperate women. I bump into KD distraught looking for Her Marcel who is not mine-he has betrayed her motherly grip slipping away to depravity with F-MR ?ghting their own war far from the front of honest hate cries they have been these years (F shaking from drink and opium).141 She drags me along for a wet block begging me to tell-we end up near whinny laugh and she discovers for herself this betrayal (mother romance is sordid), I aghast at this incest passion turning into pocket money running Marcel. He drinking it down not the good boy-I leave his ling of boozy confrontations How could you. My torn body skirts the Square again-yes I present myself after all posing is an art. All erotic ?esh but no birth-breeding-sex I am ?exed with revolt-the war the crush of the city hard on my bones the hollow gestures of M-F-MR turning money from antipathy using sad bodies girls fresh ?ailing coatracks spiders asses me arms raised crotch shaved ?aunting sex.142 The smell of sex deleted from their machine abstractions (girls born without mothers-gears refusing to catch-hot liquid exchanges frozen glassy hard) while I explode ?esh feathers forcing huge phallus gifts upon this too cold city grinding on.143 Menstruation-(mensickness!).144 I cannot live for I am proud and heed splendor-Manahatta mangles dreams ?eshthoughts artwarmed emptiness. Cosmic Chemistry: Life = womb crucible Spirit = phallus pistil Matter = ashes Loss = gain = Puri?cation145 I am un?t for this puffed city of gray dust and lost soldiers drinking lost battles in the chasms between buildings making artwar to assuage rather than ?ght. Unlike them I must ?ash radiance amidst coal-stained streets and dusky fragments from whole bodies ?xed by camera or ruler-but I am darkly dis?gured by this time-have no means of defense. If