J45

"Don't think you're special", he says, and you - nothing. Words become empty spaces, like the curves between your thighs.

There was a time when - but you'd rather not think about that. Better to close yourself off, like a flower during the night, when even the roses loose their fragrances.

Better not to cry.

Jeremiah 44 (Free-writing)

The words stick in his skin, like shards of glass:
broken letters stream through his lips,
punctuation marks dot his hair,
knotted around his neck like a noose,
as he struggles against the weight of phrases
that bear thousands of years behind them:

Why must paper burn like kisses?

The flames lick the pages
like thirsty gazelles - they look so dainty,
their little horns bent towards the water,
like your mouth, winding its way around my neck,
like a noose, and I am weighed down
by the words you could not say:

Good-bye.

One word, when hyphenated, or more of a phrase, really,
with horns sharper than shards of glass,
and I wish/do not wish that I could see myself reflected
in the mirror embedded in your skin,
but Sartre said it's hell to see yourself through others eyes,
and he's French, so he must be right?

But must is the name of a fish, over-salted and served with lemon:
I am jealous of that fish, because it feels your lips  against its skin,
your bites against its thighs - wait a minute, do fish have thighs?

Do their fins give them sexual pleasure, when they make love beneath the waves?

Google tells me that fish do not make love. They reproduce through external fertilization. Quite a boring life, really. Next, Yahoo will tell me that birds don't cry, that dragons never existed, and Pluto's not a planet.

But I would rather live in my world of illusions. It's so cozy here, beneath the purple blanket, and I grow wings when I close my eyes. In the land of dreams, unweighted by letters, I learn to fly.

תקוה

התקוה התחילה בתוך הסתיו, טיפ-טיפה, כמו שטן. ואני הסתובבתי בתוך הסרחון, אודם על שפתי, איפור בין עיני, עד שתפסוה השומרים, ונסתם באר המים.

יפה כלבנה הייתה בין ירכיי, צואריך כמגדל השן, ששרף את פני, שנשרף משדיי, כי פתחתי אני לדודי, אך דודי חמק, עבר לו, כמו סתיו שנכתף על ידי הרוח, כמו שטן שזורם, תוך ביוב, לשפת הנחל, ונפשי נשארה, מתושתשת ומבולבלת, עד סוף החורף, כשהתקוה הגיעה, והתחילה לדפדף טיפ-טיפה, כמו מעיין המתגבר

ואימתי תבא הגאולה?
אני מאמינה, באמונה שלימה.

בערב שבת : לכו ונלכה באור ה

לקראת שבת אשירה, פן תשקע השחר, ואתמלמל מילי אהבה, ואספר סיפורי שנאה,  כי לכל דבר יש זמנו תחת השמש -
ואתה, אנא תלך נא, הרוע בשדה, שושנת העמקים - הרי קראתי איליך ממעמקים.

מנסה לשפר

אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
פן תדבקני הרע בעיניך,
פן אתמכר לכף רגליך,
והייתי למרה בתוכך,
ואתחבא מאור פניך:
התהלכתה לפני,
כחייל בשדה מוקשים,
ותבהל לדרוך את רגליך,
רמס חצרי, כובש ירכיי, נושך את שדיי.

מי ביקש זאת מידך?

הלא "אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
לא "מנשיקות פיך תנשקני"
ולא, "לקראת השחר תנשכני",
 פן תדבקני הרע בלבביך,
ונהפכתי למרה בתוכך,
והייתי לשדה מוקשים:

ריח עשבים
מלתף את פניך
שבעתי מחוחי השושנים-
  כבר נדקרתי מערוגת הבושם של צואריך
שנדבק לשפתיה באמרותם "אל תיגע בי".

כבר הייתי לטרף בין שינייך. האם טעמי מצא חין בעיניך?

אם נהפכתי למרה בעיניך,
 נא המתיקני
בין שפתיך
ותכניסני תחת כנפיך:

- כי "אל תיגע בי" היא אמרה
אך כבר התמכרתי לעור פניך.

Post Yom Hashoah

You press your lips to the bread,
my thighs to your thighs:

I ponder the era when your hands wove in and out of my body,
our skin softer than this bread, because God created us without crusts,
when He threw some earth into a kiln and named it Adam;
you mold my body around yours like clay -
my thighs are two handles sticking out of your back,
my body a jug meant to hold you.

But now I lie, empty,
and the breadrcrumbs cannot sate the hunger of my thighs.
 The crusts feel hard between my lips;
I suck gently, and try not to cry.

J43 http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt1143.htm

Take your reconstructed house, the fragments of your life, and put them in a bag. Sling that bag over your shoulders, and sing songs in a language you do not understand. Wait for a miracle, the way insomniacs long for sleep - but don't be surprised when I give you nightmares. I've promised you monsters and too few kisses, and I always keep my word. It is a sign of love to keep one's promises, and as you fell asleep beneath my wings, it was you who turned away your lips - like this.

Jeremiah 42: http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt1142.htm

I wanted to think of a poem, and I didn't want it to be about sex. The problem is, that the chapter is all about a yearning for connection, and missed desires. And it doesn't get much sexier than that. I could de-sexify it, by making up silly words and telling stories about my yearning for a connection to water, and how I didn't fulfill my desire of showering today - but that would just make me want to take my shirt off.

And exile just really makes me think of beds, even though I've gotten oddly accustomed to my own. That's a good thing, I suppose: I mean, who wants to go to Egypt, even if they have nice cotton? It's hard not read my own life into the text; as a matter of fact, given that the text was recorded for a reason, I'm not even sure its unethical - for all I know, the purpose of the texts might be that we read our lives into them, and the texts into our lives - a life-immitating art-immitating life- type of thing, that Oscar Wilde would despise.

I shouldn't speak in his name, since I haven't met him of course - and I think I was supposed to be pondering Jews asking Jeremiah to pray to God about whether or not they should go to Egypt, even though they'd already made up their minds to leave the holy land, and I'm not sure why that reminds me of breakups, or why I'm thinking about the lassagna I ate for dinner, and craving chocolate.

Or maybe I do know, but I just don't feel like sharing with my invisible readers, the mixed magnitude that caused so much trouble in the Bible, the rabble-rousers who convinced the Jews to cry that they wanted to go back to Egypt, instead of entering the promised land.

You promised me nothing, besides your body, and I promised you only with my eyes, which you drank in then spit out, like a camel.

An unflattering metaphor, for a man with deep brown eyes. Oh, let me keep up the cliches: Let me add in bouquets or roses, and "hazel". Let me keep writing, always, to keep myself from pondering a yearning for connection, and missed desires, religion and sex, and the link between them.

Let me keep writing till I close my eyes, and pray for dreams not graced by your presence. Let me have dreams graced by your presence. Let me taste your tongue, your thighs.

Let me-----

Jeremiah 41: http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt1141.htm

It shouldn't matter that they killed him in a mountain, or that his blood trickled down a spot of mud, between the sheaves of grass, or leaves of grass, or kisses of wheat. It shouldn't matter that his blonde curls unfurled against purple petals, or that he never had blonde curls, or that the mountains never ascended from the valley. It shouldn't matter that our love died between my breasts, or that you came between my thighs.

When I think of your voice, whispering  "I like it when I come inside you", I shouldn't blame myself for letting you in and unfurling my petals. Is it my fault that in my desire to blossom, I mistook your words for rain, your bites for kisses?

Gedalia's corpse lay unburied; soon, his dust was forgotten beneath marching feet, but I can not forget, even when I am afraid to remember. They say that remembrance is the lot of our people, and every year, we hold a fast titled in his name, but I can not drown out your face with the taste of hamburgers.

I might pray to God, like the pilgrims who came, bearing frankincense - something I imagine smells slightly like your aftershave. But how can I pray for that which I can not hold? You molded my clay in your image, yet you found the reflection displeasing.

It shouldn't matter. But it does: So two thousand years later, I read it in a book, and try to refrain from whispering your name in the dark. I don't think you ever said my name while you were inside me; to do so would be to claim me - the you inside of me, the me inside of you - I was never phased by the Biblical phrase "And Adam knew Eve": What deeper way is there to know someone, than to feel their body inside you?

After the first prophecy, Moses and God shared a cigarette. You and I shared a slice of pizza - no toppings. You were a purist at the temple of love, and I should have known better than to get involved with a fanatic - but damn, you looked sexy when you were unfurling your banner. Don't ask me, what was the cause.  As long as you kept on watering my petals, that didn't matter.

You've sewn the grain - now pick your fucking flower.

Jeremiah 40 (another 6 minute free writing exercise)

In the time you gathered your grain,

I drank your kisses like wine.

Drunkenly, we heaved between the sheaves;

I braided husks through your hair,

the color of flames, of ashes:

They say the temple lies in cinders,

but I would build an altar
and sacrifice our burnt love

before the God who neither sleeps nor slumbers;

love may hibernate for a thousand years

before being awakend by my kisses,
by the little tips of your ears, the freckle on your arm,

I swear to neither sleep nor slumber

until I have rekindled the flames,

burnt our bodies on the altar of your bed,
and harvested the grain of your body.

Jeremiah 39: 6 minutes to write before I must leave the house (Monologue by Nebuchadnezzer to Zedekiah)

The last thing your eyes will see is your children's blood,
their thighs trembling like a virgin's in the temple,
on the night when the generals conquer them for the first time -
we too, have conquered your country's thighs and sucked on her breasts:
they tasted of gold, and her nipples reeked of iron.
Where is your silver now, you pig? Stop grovelling.
At least let your sons see you brave, as they descend to an underworld you don't believe in
See what your God of thirteen measures has meted out - repent and weep.
Where is He who took you out of Egypt?
Ten plagues my ass!

After I kill your firstborn, maybe I will spread his blood on my doorpost - it would go nicely with the painting I have in my foyer. Then I will have my whore spread her legs - maybe I'll force her to lick the blood from my fingers. I wonder what it tastes like - sweeter than cum? No, it has too much iron. Like a sword.

Take out his eyes. Let the image of his children's blood fall on the empty sockets like rain. Now bring me some wine.

The curtain closes, and all is silent.

Jeremiah 38: Free-writing while listening to Sarit Haddad (A work in progress)

Once there was a man, and the man was filled with words. The words were rough, hard, and unpleasant to look upon, like his fingers. So the prince threw him in a pit, where his voice could not be heard, and returned home to look at diamonds and drink coffee. Yet one day, when the diamonds lost their luster, and the coffee's bitterness could not be sweetened with white crystals, the prince remembered the ugly voice that left his thighs tingling. So he lowered ropes into the well, tough like the prophet's fingers, raised him up, and drank in his words. When the princesses asked why the prince was crying, he kissed her; behind the mirror, the prophet remained, bound in silence, as he licked the bread that tasted like sugar on his lips.

I seem to be constantly working on endings

Ok, so in between my oxygen paranoia (and general obsession with the pre-frontal cortex), I manage to drive myself crazy about tiny edits - and sometimes I wonder if I publish too early, since it often happens that, when I read over a blogpost, I see little things jumping out at me, that need fixing. The previous piece I published was edited before posting, but now I see things about it that nag at me - yet because it's already been posted, simply editing those things seems like a travesty. I feel this irrational need to let the previous post stand - perhaps because I'm not sure whether the current edits that are stuck in my mind are an improvement, or simply a meaningful difference.

Yet here goes an alternative version of (what should probably be) the second paragraph:

Sex cannot be defined, because it occurs in the fourth dimension of the universe, and our dictionaries only cover the three dimensions charted by philosophers: They say that love is lust, divided over time, multiplied by a factor of unwashed dishes - or some such nonsense, I don't remember, really - it's hard to think when your hands are between my thighs. The night air bites me; I am filled by your kisses, and I close my eyes.

Ok, reading this over, I think my edits are a bit of an improvement. How do you know when something is "ready"? A question not just about blogposts, but about life, really.