<br><br>CITTA VIOLENTA

My debts are great: my worst crime has always been indifference. There's no clear opening here, and no starting point. But now! I chimed through, fell through ice. Gulls laughed. They laughed! Polar Bear stuck his paw in and dragged me out. Big black dots on a white dome invisible against the sky - kind baker's eyes and stubby nose. Left alone on pack ice, meanwhile, I digest a blizzard. There was no clear start, but I always start inside the Arctic circle, no? Banks Island, Baffin Bay, or Melville Island. A glacier carving icebergs, and valleys. Snowy owl on arm. Otherwise, hermit-like. This is actually actual CLARITY - it's the lost course, and life mapped by pain, flight, coincidence. But, it is, another part of the world: trails through the Midwest, highways, a broken nose, Rimbaud as a gift, one-off dinner with the crazy family.

Says: "Those people, they are fucking out of their mind."
Says: "That's what they say about you too."
Says: "That's what they think of us."
Says: "No, no, but that's a good thing."

So, here's the thing. You pick out the guitar and it's all sticky needles, pin-pricks, and swirling blades. The trick is to pick your way through; the point is, you never do.

Lust and detours - dust, sand, ash - and then the points in between the dense, dead patches, the moments of contact - understanding the significance of what just happened, or what happened then. The milestones and the markers. Kisses, clashes. This is not the kind of song I usually fall into - who laid the trap in this song? It's laced, lucid. There's scorn, and surprise. Indifference, generosity and (ill-)will.

There's also: the thing I am, the thing I am not. A double bind, disqualified: the question or the conflict has no significance, and only because it does not exist. Just becomings and the (im)possibilities of love, and what underlies: hate, intensified. The take-off and the trapdoor. We brought ALL into it: the feline, wet slate, train travel, breakfast, dread, affirmation. All these points of significance laid out on a flat plain: horizontal, not vertical. Not a flow or swarm, simply a diagram, and connections in all directions. I thought I was about to receive a message from you, but it was shards of bird call, ice floes, Catallus, close tears, a spine stroke. I don't think (about time, death, or metaphysics): I don't think, I map. And so there's whatever happens, and the process of naming. This takes rigor, transparency, courage. All in the affirmative (even the negative). Whatever happens has no shadow or phantom. Daylight and midnight reveal each other. Tower blocks twinkle outside my window, the moon pours over my sheets. Car trails from a bridge cause a clinch. There's more, too.

Give me the steel, the mask. We hit the carnival. Break streets like ice. Crush cool, then spit. We made the pact but it never came to that. The path was marked, we took another route, without choosing. There's more too. It's an odd tale, and it will be told.

Born of Desire, action tends to satisfy it, and can do so only by the "negation," the destruction, or at least the transformation, of the desired object: to satisfy hunger, for example, the food must be destroyed or, in any case, transformed. Thus, all action is negating.
Alexandre Kojeve

To reverse what I was saying, and be right.

posted by oc # 6:27 AM

The Salon Christiana has mock-Baroque rooms with red dress-maker mannequins dotted like vast blood-tipped pins. There are the bright lips: scarlet slashed across white skin. Manicured hands pull up nylon tights, deliciously, or unlatch or link suspenders: high Italian couture, circa '64. Christina Cuomo (Eva Bartok) retains tight catwalk discipline with blades from flashy brown eyes, a word from wasp-stung lips. She's the dream dominatrix: tragic, unfuckable. Just one Italian ideal among many others: the fey blonde with the dark secret; the peasant brunette with the (un)canny instinct. Nicole runs cocaine, Peggy had an abortion. Isabella was murdered first: she had a crimson diary, with everything in it. Everyone is dying for the diary. Literally: skin slashed, a face slowly scolded on a hot iron oven, wrists slit, a body dumped in a bath, or dragged along the ground, suffocated with a pillow, strangled with wire. Usually slowly, with silence between screams, lurid red light and pitch black shadows. Everyone is guilty, or dead. Motives multiply. The thriller has no sense, or logic, or narrative. An unhinged fear ride, a live nightmare of scarlet, crimson, sable, jet, silk. Giallo prototype: frigid, filthy colour and unbridled Id.

Sei Donne per l'Assassino (Mario Bava, 1964)

posted by oc # 1:29 AM

Body War

The Gucci End: Louis Vuitton venom in the veins. Bodywear, Coco kit; great loose coat tied at the waist like Garbo or Bacall, over scoop-necked cocktail dress. Transparent organza top, super-fluid cuts, electric colours, snake-print leather skirt, python bustier and tick tock Chopard. Maximum house style: fine vintage or Dynasty redux. Soft La Perla lining under Versace exoskeleton: slim, sculpted and rib-crushingly tight. Primary warpaint; two black dots, red slash, on white wall, with blusher tint. Hair: rich chocolate with wedges of burnished apricot. Sucking Monroe lips; bitten, bitter. Vogue Italia: she doesn't understand a word.

Fashion comes over all angelic; frost settles on lashes. A stream of white leather, falling off the edge of an iceberg. Has it! Square shoulders and petite torso supported on vicious heels. Slim jersey tunic covers all but the hem of a tiny miniskirt. Legs uncovered, silk veins, marble thighs. De-fured, tangy follicles. Attractive toxins, pearl drops of sweat. Trapezium-shaped tunic top, worn over tender nerve ends, bone arcs, bare tits. Kissed-off lipstick, blunt-cut fringe, clogged lashes. The kiss: paper-cuts, lacerations, lip-shards. Blood seeps between white teeth, into pink gums. A thrilling caress, a lock of hanging limbs. Joints jar into spinal fracture. Stroking a femur poking out beneath an A-line mini. Glands spill out delicious hormonal odour. Blood vessels dilate, salivary glands secrete. The pulse increases speed, breath is caught short. Half-naked ribs rub, limbs knotted. Flexors and extensors arch, curl, lock and unroll. Muscles fold and twist, flat plains, the surface grooved and ridged, soft interlacing fields, beautiful pink sheaths. Teres major and infraspinatus tuck shyly beneath the deltoid that bursts up and out like a sail. The shoulder muscle is the point of perfection: strong or delicate, vulnerable to caress, but not fragile. Touch rushes from nerve fibre to spinal column. The shock is silent, giddy.

The Kurt Geiger model kidnapped, succumbs to these charms, stroke her femur through pink nylon tights, slowly she lets a patent red stiletto drop from each foot, her dark bob parts to reveal crimson lips and lipstick-smeared teeth like she's been chewing glass. I rip off the pink bow, she lets out a slight gasp. Crushed silk, leather and feather hits the floorboards and then: heavenly sighs. Interlocked muscles stretch, tense and relax. You can feel each fibre clench, clutch, release and clench again. I still have the marks where she bit me on the neck and her nails dug into my arms. I shall have to wear a scarf and jumper for days.

Dream of bodies defined by couture cut and outline. Bright butterflies, insects obscured by rainbow or tortoiseshell or white drapes. A hemline that reveals a secret. Dress as disclosure, or disguise. Hide beneath and behind a head of hair, or shave it to reveal: glorious dome glowing like the stratosphere. Everything in mesh, silk, nylon, put everything in on the outside. Caressed ilium, glands wrung. Tense it may be, or tender, or, too, the enduring crush and embrace. Silver lining, major-league romance and diamond store, due to hot hemline, smooth skirt, spine line, curt bra, or cute cut and collar. Solid gold bracelets, shiny gilt buttons, super-luxe with the satin bomber. Pact made on flesh and fable. Promise made on sudden sensation and its consummation. To the horror of everyone, relied upon, expected. Leaving underwear in a court garden, in the background: lute and hoopoe.

Aristo-sluts with the deluxe detail. - Panel of sequins and sexy slash cut. Waves of chiffon, wispy skin. Silk-taffeta skirt with distressed hems and ruffles. Exotic-sequined butterfly cape. Scent contains peony, magnolia, wild jasmine, and lily of the valley. Cloud of organza, feathers and tulle. Elaborate jet choker, Twenties Bakelite bangles. Squares and rectangles, as long as they have smooth, round edges. Natural to catwalk sharp. Shiny chocolate calfskin. Baroque-style garnet, pearl and pewter necklace. Forest-green cashmere, navy-blue silk Georgette, red lace. Jacket fitted to the bone. Gold brocade dress or kimono. Dragonfly necklace in platinum with cultured pearls, pave diamonds and sapphires. Gown of lurex and sequins. Ostrich-feather fan. Glistening armour of gold and gunmetal beading. Velvet fishtail dress with chain-mail waistband. Fringe, tasseled shirt, rustling petticoats and a flower in hair. Warp waists and giraffe neckline, homage to the belle epoque. The Edwardian Raj princesses chez Dior. African warrior neck-rings with cancan bustles. A string of South Sea pearls, a classic English vanity case.

Ever-layered skirt, and The Collection; heady vapour, incense, endless, empty Vespers, but rich symbolism, quick examples: blue-goldstone stands for honesty and cruelty; amethyst, endurance and lust; morgante is the melancholia of accumulation without end; pink-sapphire is the emblem of joy, frivolity, generosity of spirit; black-sapphire represents moral degradation, despair and the gloom of death; mother-of-pearl is divine love and charity; ruby is the symbol of transubstantiation, emblem of the Eucharist; pave-diamond of renunciation, repentance, mortification of the flesh; opal represents eternal wisdom; topaz, celestial radiance; onyx, sorrow, fear, and enlightenment; white gold is the symbol of resurrection: hot white piercing through darkness.

arabe

Bathe your body in a iridescent veil. High-intensity gloss, like cash, graphics, digital touch-up. Oily zones, mattifying primer, pores protected from light and likeness. All-over gloss, liquid pearl for eyes. Clinic touch tint for eyes in lilac frost. Pigments in pink, pearlised colour. Citrus varnish, even skin tones like armour. Black grape lock ultra lipcolour. Midnight and gunpowder eye shadow. Deep, smoky eyes, with hard, glossy lips. Lasting nail enamel, finish lacquer. Fluid foundation, soft matte finish of surprising transparency and lightness. Prescriptive powder play in illicit ink: brush-on loose powder shadow for eyes, cheeks, collarbone, hair. Eye effects in Black Spell or Spiritual Bronze. Cellular time release moisturiser, multi-tonal colour system. Anti-oxidant properties get to work. Cream knows what your skin needs before you do. Light-adjusting pigments, self-adjusting coverage. Skin dilates, evaporates. Touch lost on a hazy membrane. This elaborate toxic balance amounts to vague, powerful worship. Your cheeks taste of strawberry and my tongue is laced with poison. Not to complain, far from it. The clinch was ...powdery. I dream of poverty again to experience this dissolute sensation. A cool to molten spectrum of colours.

The new body shape. Cut outs, zips, rips and slashes. Agility, inner strength and accentuated curves. Slim hips, flatten stomachs, lift breasts, elongate legs. The clothes are demanding. The price of beauty is behaviour. Desire is discipline. Curves are muscular, but supple. The back can bend and bounce back like a rubber doll. Health, virility and pure lines. Lose lipid but hide bone. A very small opening for perfection that is not, however, exclusive or impossible. Somewhere, sometime, in the event, there to achieve, for required capital, over x amount of years. Torture is too little to bear for bare flesh, the anguish is nothing. There is divine grace to attain, in your walk, or the tight fit of your knickers. This ideal curved Y, so like being at the foot of a cross.

Mother Pasidee of Sienna ripped her flesh with branches of juniper and holly and doused her wounds with vinegar and salt. She poured hot lead into her shoes. She knelt on thistles and thorns. In winter she slept on snow, in summer on nettles and pebbles. In January she broke the ice on a cask of water and climbed in. Once she hung upside down in a chimney lit with damp straw until she almost suffocated. Saint Rose of Lima wrapped herself in a chain so tight that the skin broke. She wore a horse hair girdle studded with pins and shards of glass. Saint Catherine of Sienna ate only the sacrament for many years. Saint Catherine of Genoa dipped her feet in boiling water. Catherine Emmerich chose a crown of thorns rather than a crown of flowers and covered her head in cuts and gashes. Angela of Foligno was repulsed by a leper and punished herself by drinking the water in which she had bathed his sores, forcing down a scab stuck in her gagging throat.

Improve skin structure from the inside. Minimise lines, wrinkles and dry skin. Hands, elbows, cleavage, shins, as well as face. Lie down for laser fix up. No cutting, no surgical scars, no hospitalisation, excellent standards. Acne, scars, stretch marks, cellulite, cysts, leg veins, birth marks, verrucae, restylane. Corrective surgery, body contouring. Liposculpture, eyebag surgery, collagen injections. Exoderm peel, microdermabrasion. Treat appearance of lines, dryness, puffiness and dark circles. A younger looking future, visible anti-ageing serum. Maxilip technology; stimulate lip's collagen reserves. Thread veins, spider veins, broken veins - dermal flares, sunburst varicosities, and telangiectasias. Paraffin wax bodywrap. Svelte anti-cellulite treatment. Mesotherapy, body brushing, ultrasound and deep lymphatic massage. Smooth and skim the form, cast with precision, like fine metal. A nice body can give you a good feeling. A beautiful smile for life.

Implore our lady especially, for like myrrh which consumes the proud flesh of wounds, she heels the ulcers of the soul.

posted by oc # 4:55 AM

posted by oc # 11:20 AM

CITTA VIOLENTA

Wednesday, November 26, 2003

Thursday, November 20, 2003

Wednesday, November 05, 2003

Tuesday, November 04, 2003

citta vecchio