JD Howse: I’ve Grown So Lonesome

after James Bidgood’s ‘Pink Narcissus (1971)‘

it was real because you dreamt it was real
fantasy upon fantasy upon fantasy
dream until dream is more physical than physical
loneliness as an intimacy with loneliness
bodies carved from the nakedness of bodies
a dream as an intricately crafted physical place
a constructed set within a set space
the force of perspective forced
a reality as an image of a reality of a dream
pan across the world, rearrange the foliage
the distance of the moon as the distance of light
pink on green on blue of the world at night
the opening of a chrysalis
motion of the air into motion in the air
pan through the world, the foliage approaches
frond upon frond, the scale of our travel
night sky and morning indistinguishable
the confines of fallen petals from the ceiling
frame yourself as reverence and loneliness gilded
unseen hands winding music boxes
falling of chiffon across a lens as chiffon on skin
clothing tight to skin as clothing tracks motion
mirror the world into multiplicity
mirror the world a urinal
clothing clings to skin like piss upon china
garbage in the sewer, the ornament of a mirror
step up to expel as you step up to observe
the opening of an eye, the parting of lips
the nature of the earth as naked flesh
yellow, red, pink, applause
phallic framing of structuring in the world
the gilt vortex, beauty polished onto beauty
mediated eroticism mediated through metaphor
the bulge of a crotch, the grasping of an ass
too close for detail, every detail, leather on flesh
the revving of a bull, a neck pushed down
white flesh white cloth white porcelain drowning
thrown aside thrusting, the flow of water
cleanse the world as the world is left
crawling along the phallic base of reality
I embraces I as another, lifted up
the winding of a handle, music plays
the constructed reality of a record not playing
a phone call, a fag, the striking of a match
thinking of you, thinking of you, thinking of you
outer layers pulled over boots
the transparent outline of clothing mirrored
the rolling to display a curve thrusting to the earth
the world is green; flesh lit yellow, purple, blue
writing against the desire of the other, alone
innocence reappears, a mess of hair, a ringing bell
a door is not a door if a door does not conceal
the opening of a door opens another reality
a reality is indistinguishable from a dream
fragile beauty wrestles to the floor
depravity in domination; desire in pace with grasp
strip the layers away, layer image upon image
the scream of a bird; one bird as many birds
the splitting of an image into many images
strip into the earth, discard the covering
throw upon the window, a breeze simulated
flashing of a city, billowing veils
softness of the world contained within
night’s sexual escapism into day
the light of the sun shadowing against pale flesh
stroking the world against the softness of skin
holding motion in your hands, against your ear
to feel the movement of the breeze on your crotch
the heaving ecstasy of a flesh
absentminded rotation of the globe
glass against lips, up to the light
a warm wetness against the skin of your hands
a warm wetness of fingers in the mouth
the dying throes of motion in the grass
the glittering of performance rising up
the fantasy of memory and the fantasy of fantasy
doubling the observer as observed and overseer
signaling the start of performance as aspect of it
a single body layered over itself in multitudes
motion and addition as the single body in motion
rhythm as sound and rhythm as motion
spatiality of the performance existing as performed
the blackness of the world in layering red bodies
observer layered behind the observed in the void
erect thrusting as element of performance
the dance as lust removed from penetration
the implications only of the thrust, observed
layers of pearls, layers of pearls, thrusting
from below, observing separate from audience
grasping towards nothing, grasping at the motion
curving of a back, leaning forward, on your knees
kaleidoscope of existence coming apart
existence reframed in a string of beads
many beads in a string, many strings in a string
the motion of hands along the surface
a still body, billowing, superimposed on the motion
solid flesh, rigid below the flow of fabric
running the hardness of a hand along a hard body
ejaculation as the angle of observation
the loneliness of a city full of people
conscious choices as actions in constructing space
construing the sense of a city from space within it
sex as commodity as commodity as sex
text as constructed, oppositions of construction
the moon as light in the sky
latex condom and transparent umbrella as clothing
flashing signs, negative against the glass
ringing of phones in two places as one place
the city layering spaces, double negative spaces
masturbating sailor, rooting through bins
more-or-less random assortment of bodies-on-streets
half-clothed builder in fully-constructed space
bodies enact actions on streets built above streets
the inherent sexuality within everything
fag between the fingers, windowed in the lips
phone call from building to street
snuff-box innocence framed in glass
binding of part-clothed bodies in clothes
discordant whirr of streets
binding as clothing, loose hang and drape of cloth
cocks swinging between legs, cupped in hands
the horror of blood windowed onto the street
shirtless cowboys, pantsless leathermen
hotdog cocks for consumption, calling up
stretching pale filigree and tassel in soft silence
crushing wings between fingers, given to the wind
in blood and semen washed from hands
the sky breaks for a prayer for rain
the naked flesh to be cleansed, rotation of roses
motion of the air, crack of light, dark blue
droplets against the earth, skin against the air
droplets of rain onto naked skin, blue and purple
the embrace of liquid onto skin
a body in the night, alone but for the damp
fall to your knees in the rain, feel your skin
the arching of a back against the force of the sky
nature reclaiming nature crawling over body
cupping of crotch, binding branches
stagger forward through the wetness of space
the running of rain off skin, naked to the air
almost as if the earth is alive in its grasping
flashing, turning, on all fours in the soil
embrace the embracing of phallic fronds
running the shaft of a leaf against wet lips
in reaching for the rain, reach for the branches
let the nothingness of skin branch against elements
consume the natural in encircling the body
the dreamlike bliss of being sublimated
in black and blue consumption into the scenery
divinity in the ambience
the purity of this moment, the black sky
looking up, reaching up, consumed, aware
nothingness, eyes closed, held, moist
drifting of petals, wandering through space
rotting flowers, drooping flowers
the perfection of the body considered to be perfect
reaching for petals, clearing space from the wind
parting of clouds, the brightness of the sky
the return to the familiar as the absence of such
still naked, soft skin unclothed, reaching
an eye as the light of the sun, as a street, as a bulb
the sky above a city as the drapery of a bed
come sunset and strip before the mirror
body half-covered in translucent cloth
the key in the door, the arrival of a man in a space
in dreaming, the world is as it might be
as the world is, any man can be reborn a man
cracked glass, broken framing of a scene
the spiderweb quivering of wind
a body crawls towards the perception of a body
lushness of green under blue-lit skies
once you embraced and thrusted into the earth
slow-fade, the blurred loss of detail
credits roll anonymous, written anonymous
slow swell of soundtrack, the chirp of crickets
dreamlike artifice of some possible, further bliss
build spaces in homes, in bedrooms, in spaces
in lieu of a body there is space that may hold one
as we construct meaning, we construct reality
in the tactility of a body, both may be observed
I’ve grown so lonesome,
thinking of you,
thinking of you.
In the smallest confines of space,
the greatest expanses can be made.
All by my lonesome,
thinking of you,
thinking of you.
In dreaming my own body,
I dream your body,
and with bodies together,
I build us a world.
When you were mine, dear,
the world was mine, dear,
the chiffon of the curtains floated against us,
I was a city,
you were a window, and my skies were blue.
A man acts out the dream of a man,
sensuously built,
made real.
I’ve grown so lonesome,
thinking,
thinking of you,
thinking of you.