Literal Madness by Kathy Acker

Author:Kathy Acker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-07-06T16:00:00+00:00

2 LANGUAGE

1. Narrative breakdown for Carla Harriman In the year 1413 I went in search of my true love. There was a camp full of milling people. A beautiful young boxer who’s the son of a rich man is buying horses. I called him to me. I told him he’s my brother by our father. I put him up for the night in my house. In the toilet he fell into the shit. I stole his money while he escaped from my house. He knocked at the door of my house and my servants: “You’re crazy; we don’t know who you are.” A bum told him to stop disturbing his sister. They found him out by the smell of his shit. An old woman told the following tale: It is a place of sacred practice. Art isn’t about the sacred. A beautiful young man sneaks up to the garden. The beautiful young man pretends to be mute. He is the new gardener and the nuns treat him as a pet. The nuns want his cock. Cock is the action that makes you go mad. The nuns hit him with a stick. Then they drag him into a hut. His cock’s small. Oh ooooh ooh. Heaven, for all we know, has arisen. Both the nuns are smiling. All the other nuns want to. All the women are after cock. Will the man die? Old ugly hag Mother Superior gets hold of this boy’s cock. Ten men (much less this boy) can’t even satisfy one female and a cock is a miracle. “You’re a robber you’re a forger you’ve raped women, etc; maybe you should get out of town a bit until things cool down. You’re so evil, you’re the person to collect my debts.” So I went to a town out in the grass. Men pushed along a cart of skulls. The queen wore a basket over her head and extended a shovel with a skull sitting on top of it.

Giotto’s best pupil has come to paint Naples. The painter who is one of the finest painters around wears rags. Are all our friends poor? The painter looks like an imp. This imp is maddened. Mauled. Big plump Casaba melons lie on the road. Don’t make me die of love. If you fuck me, I won’t die. When the painter eats with the monks, his table manners are atrocious.

I am a slave because they’re auctioning me. I’m a young boy.

I pick a young boy to buy me. I give him my money. I tell him where to get us shelter. We fuck there. He’s so very young, he doesn’t know how to fuck. Soon he figures it out. No: I show him. I’m a great artist. I tell my new boyfriend to sell my art but not to a white man because a white man’ll separate us. When I sell it to a white man, he follows me. My girlfriend tells me a story. Can the poets speak about what they haven’t experienced? Slowly I penetrated her.

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