Doctor

you plan to leave the room quickly and for a moment you assume that everyone in the room has seen too much and you have become too vulnerable and pleasure can do this, especially, but not only, when unexpected or expressed in an unexpected way and in vulnerability we are open, when we are open we welcome more but we are suspended and here we are more malleable and to be malleable maybe is not to be cool which is to be stoic or sure or stubborn, but in this room it pays to be open and this feels disorientating, almost drunk from the neck you cracked the neck you think you opened something up or connected something new, found something in there and said it, named it, and we guess that really we don’t know everything that today the body is a secret because it has always been at least partially a secret and we mean pure as in raw, raw as in unknown, unknown as in to be known or when fear is welcomed and the room is entered and it all becomes very easy to find out; the presence of the spirit or something remarkable and temporary which we have been known to also call art, and because we are here where the art is supposed to happen in the room where we watch ourselves through the colours, and now here the brightest colours so far, a mirror of the fire, the opportunistic flood of the real sensory importance as four slow marble seagulls are pushed by amber light into the distance, the very real real sound of technicolor or rhubarb or ones soul which has been properly examined and tucked back in, a ritual in pleasure, performed in full all full and proper with curtain and applause and stern congratulations on particular parameters and how good each piece of the meat continues fighting off age and the room becomes wrapped fairly inextricably in the time that ages us, time like air fills the room, the room the art is in which is the doctor’s surgery or the holy room or the comic book store or anywhere we like to just keep busy, and so age which is time sacrifices itself through our bodies in many ways and so we burn life in celebration of itself because life cancels out life and what we have left is sex or pleasure of any kind or the spirit of colour or sound or the water beneath our arms watching the skin burn in real holy light or sun across the moving car thinking about your eyes but looking away at the road pressing against the infected tooth until we cry tears of don’t say it don’t say pleasure that would be to give into the devil and in the room we pull the boardshorts down to the ankle and we cannot be any more in the fluorescent light the circular heat followed by the empty tap on the linoleum, the small wax comb attached to the inner pocket for years, for years unopened attached firmly to the womb of the pocket to the bungee elastic that dips for it is the doctor of wax ready for the body the body that is eventually that is moving, at least partially towards pleasure, begs new life the body of the board that takes you deep into the belly of water of which the body is made where the body is made of itself and it is in front of you and beneath, the body of the earth that is which is more so the assurance of life or of more life or a plane of sorts of which you are placed unimaginatively and unintimidatingly or the experience of time, an approval of something-ness, permission to go, permission to let go or to submit which is how pleasure is received like dipping in the water and back out until the layers of glazing ignite and people’s eyes and the world's beauty becomes just enough to knock you out and when we are most out of it from the sun that is from the sun that tilts life the fluorescent light of everything that tilts us, a day lead by the body, just going from salt dried to water and again and a psychedelic yes of things a presence in life a poem a moment a moment off guard spiralling into rainbow or lightning now lightning birthing oneself quickly from spirals of heat and all we see is heat and we think when really we could be witnessing extraordinary things, but right now we let in the heat, the hierarchy of mystery speaks and if we ignore the skin now then what use is fire and so instead we stand here pants to our ankles and we fuck in a room and once we finish the something, the something that is kind of unknown to us at the time, the artness or sound or perhaps behind the eyes assures you it assures you it assures you that you will live and you will love long if you choose to or longer at least a little longer a little more life you tell each other a little more good yet if just this night if just this night could be a person you think, if holding the body with love was as easy as loving the world which is often received as violence disguised as complacency or convenience bright orange and green backlit insomnia store wait for you on the corner because it is slow and of a time beyond agriculture defying the nomadic fire that maybe still burns a little bit you know the balls in hand kind the ready to move really ready to be changed the hottest one the brightest and most powerful, the circular fire part of the forward motion the one you know by it’s sound or smell or taste for it has had many names of which the devil is one but still wait for you on the corner because its the right thing to do and if you admit that art is satisfying in this sexual way and if you think that sometimes sex actually isn’t political because you believe some of this pleasure to be private, art that is, and despite the urge to share some things you keep to yourself like how the colour hits your body or the memory of an old and now lost friend or the colours become the roof of a tent and you are 12 years old again and like everything it is sometimes a mirror but it is most importantly the body in a mirror, the body of the earth and in that earth, or rather, that earth itself is abundant with pleasure with painting with salt water with alcohol, fluorescent colours, dancing, holding hands, holding the remote, elevating the knees, throwing the throw and standing back to admire it, brushing the stroke with crystal methamphetamine, tying the knot, learning or wrestling all the things we make money from all the things we make money from for which we must always include the body for its use within the body makes it political, which is of no entertained alternatives of no possibilities but the fire; the hurling bullet at the body and we remember the body because there are the hands that love that work long days that rest against your ass in the sun of a long street a street that is any street and it’s a sacrifice we are willing to take that is to engage in art making a sacrifice in age only or time not spent committing fully to love and when we take time to make a mirror we do not have to share it but we may and if we do which is similar to pulling our pants down we provide here a moment, like a poem or a meal for a juror or a critic or a friend like an athlete hot and heaving like a king, both with and without a throne but certainly here, confirmed in sorts given a room or an office for us to visit and so we have art then in our hands because it’s how we fuck without fucking which is a poem which is breaking rules or being a dog or being horny or playing music or water or rolling another joint or passing a drink or actually submitting to the loud and audacious trumpet, the strong da da da da of the rhythm, to give into rhythm or to really and wholly give in to the smell of your own sweat which really is to say nothing at all, to witness the obscurity of witnessing itself which sometimes is sex and is definitely art and when it’s placed in a room we ask for an opinion on life in as much as we take time to be here and to make a judgment on our body and how it rests against the body of the earth and how it might continue or how it feels right now or what feels right now what feels good and what brings pain and what has priority and what wins and what brings pleasure and for this we pay, for pleasure we have always paid