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INK
1.You are a bottle of ink and you are whole and intact when I look at you. You are a bottle of the blackest India ink and when I look closely at you I see myself in the shiny reflection on your glassy walls. And in my reflection, or behind it, I see the ink that you are made of, wanting to be spilled like an ocean of images onto the unmade bed. And soon I will spill you and you will seep into the confusion of quilts and you will stain even my pillow. And after that, I will lie down and soak in your drippy mess, and possibly I will fall asleep and my head will act like a sponge to the soaked pillow and as I sleep your spilled black ink will become words written on the eyelids of a sleeping dream. Oh, bu the broken glass will awaken me and I will be cut on the roof of my mouth, and then as I bleed from the holes in my head, all the ink will leak out from where I had it sequestered away and the beautiful stringing together of words will escape me, will leak out and collect into the new glassy receptacle which you so cunningly hold beneath my open orifices. And then I will be all drained of inky substance and you will sit again on the table and I will again think of spilling you onto the unmade bed.
2. In the middle of the night, I awoke to find that I had sprung a leak.
I had flooded the entire room with ink. It was feet deep on the carpet, it reached my knees and had soaked my sheets.
I stood, waded to the door and let loose the deluge into the rest of the apartment. I made my way to the tile of the bathroom and proceeded to search my body for the source of the spill. I found not a scrape on the elbow nor a tear in the skin of my thigh. My ears, though now stained black, remained intact. Finally, my close and careful eye discovered a pinprick on my right index finger, through which the torrent of greasy ink had been flowing for an indeterminable number of hours.
I put the tip of that finger in my mouth. I sucked and swallowed at the spring of ink until it had coagulated and ceased to rush out of me.
By now it was deep enough to swim in the pigment, so I did, floating on my back. As I lay, head partially submerged, the level of liquid lowered until finally I had taken all my precious ink back through my pores and I lay in the empty bathtub and slept again.
3.inkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinknkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkin
It is with ink that we follow the progression of days. It is with ink that I calculate and annotate. It is with ink that I push you away, even while I wish I were pulling you into me. Ink is what I demonstrate with, the medium through which I manifest. Ink is the emptiness you create to represent fullness. In ink I wrote those letters to you, and it was with the absence of ink that I addressed the envelopes. It is ink that flows from me during full moons. It is ink I drink when I am tired and must not sleep. It is ink I trail in footprints through your rooms, and ink that stains your kitchen appliances even after I have left. Mostly, given everything I have done to you, it it with ink that I drown myself out.
4. You came out of the tendons in my wrist tightening and relaxing. You came out of the blood feeding my muscles, you came out of my bones moving the way my nerves directed the muscles to move them. You arose by a mechanical biological phenomenon over which I have both no and all control. You came from my body doing what its electricity tells it to do. You derive from a spark in my ganglia. You travel through my body as a wave of light too small to see, fed by a voice too distant to matter much and yet it matters everything.
I can feel you moving in there, aching a little, pulsating as you slide from axon to axon along dendrites between synapses. I can feel my muscle cells passing you out into ink.
Are you decaying? Decay! Decay and therefore become something new and yet more perfect and still worse than what you started as. But don’t forget how it felt to be in this ink, lodged here, stuck and corroded. Remember how you flowed from me solid and slippery? Look at these configurations of letters: do you understand them at all?
5. I wish your emptiness would overcome your latent and inherent label-making abilities. I wish you would open up for corneas for me, just do it, yes it is a painful procedure but once I have written on the lens, everything will at once become clear to the brain’s interpretation.
Why did you spend so much of your time as a young man collecting words if you were never going to use them? And tell me, we are rotting, aren’t we, in the glowing Julys we have created for ourselves, aren’t we decomposing?
But to be honest, if it came to that, I would much enjoy the chance to introduce the fungal and bacterial cultures to my empty head with you next to me. Think of the roses and honeysuckle pricklevines we would inspire with the long-forgotten pathways of ink held in place by organic material. How can the abstract be so well imprisoned in the physical? I wonder about that often when I am not looking forwardly nut sideways with my peripheral vision at the unknown. But your beeping bothers me, in that is makes clear the fact that you ache for sleep in the autumn months. And as much as I hate to point it out, I would like to remind you that you fit perfectly in the square nook of the joining of the flesh between my fleshy thighs. So next time, don’t forget that I want it more than anything, that tessellation. It is exactly what we were built for. So tell me, why are we not tessellating right now?
Who told you those secrets, anyway? Did my body give them away? Was it the words I left on your retina? Was it the empty writings? I want to write on you, who cares. I will write on you without cease until the very end. I will keep you up at night with it, whether or not you ask that of me. I have all the time in the world and I would like to spend it on your retinas as an inked-in shadow of doubt.
Did you know what I was doing? Did you have any idea? This is why you seem to interpret things with such ease these days: it’s my ink on your jelly. I held your eyelids open and with permanent India ink I carefully interpreted the world and left the stain of that interpretation forever black on the surface of your most relied-on sense. In this way I combined two essentials: the sensory intake and the elucidation. I had made sure that you would be able to look around the ink; soon you realized you didn’t need to.
This deprivation of words is difficult. I want you to read and read and read and never cease your reading, but you will not even commence it. So I ask you: why do you not respond to the ink? Is it not what you asked for? Are the ratios of ink to page wrong, in your opinion?
2. In the middle of the night, I awoke to find that I had sprung a leak.
I had flooded the entire room with ink. It was feet deep on the carpet, it reached my knees and had soaked my sheets.
I stood, waded to the door and let loose the deluge into the rest of the apartment. I made my way to the tile of the bathroom and proceeded to search my body for the source of the spill. I found not a scrape on the elbow nor a tear in the skin of my thigh. My ears, though now stained black, remained intact. Finally, my close and careful eye discovered a pinprick on my right index finger, through which the torrent of greasy ink had been flowing for an indeterminable number of hours.
I put the tip of that finger in my mouth. I sucked and swallowed at the spring of ink until it had coagulated and ceased to rush out of me.
By now it was deep enough to swim in the pigment, so I did, floating on my back. As I lay, head partially submerged, the level of liquid lowered until finally I had taken all my precious ink back through my pores and I lay in the empty bathtub and slept again.
3.inkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinknkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkinkin
It is with ink that we follow the progression of days. It is with ink that I calculate and annotate. It is with ink that I push you away, even while I wish I were pulling you into me. Ink is what I demonstrate with, the medium through which I manifest. Ink is the emptiness you create to represent fullness. In ink I wrote those letters to you, and it was with the absence of ink that I addressed the envelopes. It is ink that flows from me during full moons. It is ink I drink when I am tired and must not sleep. It is ink I trail in footprints through your rooms, and ink that stains your kitchen appliances even after I have left. Mostly, given everything I have done to you, it it with ink that I drown myself out.
4. You came out of the tendons in my wrist tightening and relaxing. You came out of the blood feeding my muscles, you came out of my bones moving the way my nerves directed the muscles to move them. You arose by a mechanical biological phenomenon over which I have both no and all control. You came from my body doing what its electricity tells it to do. You derive from a spark in my ganglia. You travel through my body as a wave of light too small to see, fed by a voice too distant to matter much and yet it matters everything.
I can feel you moving in there, aching a little, pulsating as you slide from axon to axon along dendrites between synapses. I can feel my muscle cells passing you out into ink.
Are you decaying? Decay! Decay and therefore become something new and yet more perfect and still worse than what you started as. But don’t forget how it felt to be in this ink, lodged here, stuck and corroded. Remember how you flowed from me solid and slippery? Look at these configurations of letters: do you understand them at all?
5. I wish your emptiness would overcome your latent and inherent label-making abilities. I wish you would open up for corneas for me, just do it, yes it is a painful procedure but once I have written on the lens, everything will at once become clear to the brain’s interpretation.
Why did you spend so much of your time as a young man collecting words if you were never going to use them? And tell me, we are rotting, aren’t we, in the glowing Julys we have created for ourselves, aren’t we decomposing?
But to be honest, if it came to that, I would much enjoy the chance to introduce the fungal and bacterial cultures to my empty head with you next to me. Think of the roses and honeysuckle pricklevines we would inspire with the long-forgotten pathways of ink held in place by organic material. How can the abstract be so well imprisoned in the physical? I wonder about that often when I am not looking forwardly nut sideways with my peripheral vision at the unknown. But your beeping bothers me, in that is makes clear the fact that you ache for sleep in the autumn months. And as much as I hate to point it out, I would like to remind you that you fit perfectly in the square nook of the joining of the flesh between my fleshy thighs. So next time, don’t forget that I want it more than anything, that tessellation. It is exactly what we were built for. So tell me, why are we not tessellating right now?
Who told you those secrets, anyway? Did my body give them away? Was it the words I left on your retina? Was it the empty writings? I want to write on you, who cares. I will write on you without cease until the very end. I will keep you up at night with it, whether or not you ask that of me. I have all the time in the world and I would like to spend it on your retinas as an inked-in shadow of doubt.
Did you know what I was doing? Did you have any idea? This is why you seem to interpret things with such ease these days: it’s my ink on your jelly. I held your eyelids open and with permanent India ink I carefully interpreted the world and left the stain of that interpretation forever black on the surface of your most relied-on sense. In this way I combined two essentials: the sensory intake and the elucidation. I had made sure that you would be able to look around the ink; soon you realized you didn’t need to.
This deprivation of words is difficult. I want you to read and read and read and never cease your reading, but you will not even commence it. So I ask you: why do you not respond to the ink? Is it not what you asked for? Are the ratios of ink to page wrong, in your opinion?
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