the Kirstie Alley dream (2005)
I
You never used to be like this. Why are you
hacked infinite, helical particles, quantum cut-up of Dante’s Inferno ? You have the grey in spades but where,
Oh
Where is the incandescence ?
Used to be unstable nucleus of uranium 235
& now look
You
’re dunking an artificial sweetener in your eye.
Don’t play green, jellybean. I’ve seen footage, lots of footage. (No, this does not constitute a fetish.)
And this party food is small. This isn’t like you.
These aren’t the lips I used to know,
stickier,
chapped and unresponsive. They are so lonely.
I dream inertia, dreams where I’m submerged in the office as usual, casting bubbles with my mouth, but you no longer take your place at my workstation, treading water over my out tray; can’t even offer me dreamt lassitude.
(Not impressed.)
II
“Let’s be logical.” That’s cute, but we don’t even start being logical. The bedroom remains impassive. It is a clearance sale. It is a shingle beach. And other tributes to this malfunctioning frost-engine.
Waiting in the data for a research methodology. “We like each other don’t we?” Even though you like sugar, and I like salt, with tears.
How long did it take before you started using? I’m not about to point my finger at the drugs, I know the problems pre-dated that. I know, the double trouble, the co-morbidity, Believe me, I fucking know. Like a mother.
Don’t straighten your make-up, re-calibrate your clothes. It won’t make me change my mind. The trajectory of my questioning is keyed. I’m headed for your swerves, your skids, your fishtails… soiled, sordid chicaneries, i.e. your brain’s most lizardly sanctuaries, most manipulative little hatchlings.
I’m not talking down to you. Or if I am, I don’t mean to. Just don’t ask me for change. Or if you do, make it like that Meek stencil (“Keep your coins, I want CHANGE”), with full-blown political statement backlighting your plight. Stencil art strays via iconography into viral marketing, offers repeatable results, multiplies a product through a neighbourhood or even a whole city or even deeper and higher still.
[I stole this theory from a guy I spoke to at a party a few weeks back. You were at the party too, but no one saw you.]
I think you wanted to control, nudge my faders, split my cables. I got ransacked by you. Control is never harmlessly itself, but it’s usually impeccably presented. You were always dressed up like a Superpower.
Is that where you score – on the street? How the mighty are forlorn.
The subtext of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is that bright rainbows of designer drugs could invade our schools, and look what’s happened. Not that I blame you.
III
Looking for a challenge? Sure you are.
You’re forever high, scratching away
concrete skies
lost so much time freezeframed
Sometimes I go digging through dusty old albums
the genealogy of your sexual knowledge,
glossary of your wildest. The vinyl warped by sixteen summers.
I argue with old songs.
[lot of your opinions I don’t think are just.]
And yet I can still catch the beery bittersweet.
A rare connectivity when we first. Between and beyond. As if I could face the sun, head the moon.
When we forked, I didn’t mince my words; I said, “I can dream without you.”
blackberries
fractal
Slowmotion into
tzatziki
Copies
And then later in my dream you are Kirstie Alley. You went public about the length of time you had gone without sexual relations: 4.5 years, because, you said, you didn’t want to have “fat sex.” Oh it was lovely, just lovely... I woke up with $36,000 and a new haircut.
I can see things in the blur that trails behind you, truths that Tom Waits would baulk at; “the cosmos does not evolve but technology, on the other hand, does.”
IV
You never said no, never refused anything. You would have shared tapas and boutique piss with the Menem government in Buenos Aires. If you could.
You never made a fuss. Although you never could abide inflatables; didn’t do prosthetics. You self-styled as untouched, sustainable. I found it sexy like smoke and mirrors.
Your credo was stereoscopy, South Yarra style:
more fashionable than scientology at least (the Kirstie Alley dream is a haunter).
Each year, a meat-vivid original, a surprise movie comes to light us. That was you in 2001. Scooped the awards, bombarded the bank with seeds, growth flowering harvest. The economy of one-liners. Now you’ve still got a little pollen dust above your lip, hanging like a plaque, saying, “This was my success”. This was your secret.
But this is (or at least was) our home, and this is your captain speaking. Kirstie Alley has written a book called How to Lose Your Ass and Regain Your Life. I’m not recommending it. But it promises to be an opus in the metamorphic tradition. It would make Kafka cough, Ovid ovulate. It might make you sing again. Maybe not like you used to, headful of Jazz and other abstract furniture, burrowing deep through the octaves, encountering cigarette butts from the paleolithic period… and gravel, lots of it. But singing nonetheless.
If I’m repeating myself it’s because once the secret is betrayed, it spreads like an epidemic, a rash sandpapering our skin. All the sins of the tribe are supposed to be transferred. Dirty mandalas are their vessels.
Are you
Of raven or
Crow,
Nightblack bird?
Can you taste the difference?
V
The bridge was not designed to carry large pedestrian crowds. And we are like this.
In this megalopolis of. Bacteria. In this megalopolis of. Weekly email updates. In this megalopolis of. Highly-trained consultants. In this megalopolis of. Potassium drought. In this megalopolis of. Financial support,
they clear the decks for new Darwinian beginnings
and you are but a
Lollipop
Blow job
(I could almost love you).
Notes
* Uranium-235 is an isotope of uranium that differs from the element's other common isotope, uranium-238, by its ability to cause a rapidly expanding fission chain reaction.
* Carlos Menem was president of Argentina from 1989 to 1999.
* Kirstie Alley really has written a book entitled How to Lose Your Ass and Regain Your Life. She is a scientologist, and is probably best known for her performances in the TV series Cheers and the Look Who's Talking series of films. Alley has become an anti-obesity campaigner, and is a spokesperson for the Jenny Craig weight-loss program. Recently she admitted to not having had sex for four and a half years, because she didn't want to have "fat sex".
* Meek is Melbourne stencil artist. I can post images of / links to his work if anyone's interested. (I would do that now, but it seems the quality links I had are now dead).
(c) Stu Hatton 2005
http://wordyness.blogspot.com/2005/10/kirstie-alley-dream-2005.html
I
You never used to be like this. Why are you
hacked infinite, helical particles, quantum cut-up of Dante’s Inferno ? You have the grey in spades but where,
Oh
Where is the incandescence ?
Used to be unstable nucleus of uranium 235
& now look
You
’re dunking an artificial sweetener in your eye.
Don’t play green, jellybean. I’ve seen footage, lots of footage. (No, this does not constitute a fetish.)
And this party food is small. This isn’t like you.
These aren’t the lips I used to know,
stickier,
chapped and unresponsive. They are so lonely.
I dream inertia, dreams where I’m submerged in the office as usual, casting bubbles with my mouth, but you no longer take your place at my workstation, treading water over my out tray; can’t even offer me dreamt lassitude.
(Not impressed.)
II
“Let’s be logical.” That’s cute, but we don’t even start being logical. The bedroom remains impassive. It is a clearance sale. It is a shingle beach. And other tributes to this malfunctioning frost-engine.
Waiting in the data for a research methodology. “We like each other don’t we?” Even though you like sugar, and I like salt, with tears.
How long did it take before you started using? I’m not about to point my finger at the drugs, I know the problems pre-dated that. I know, the double trouble, the co-morbidity, Believe me, I fucking know. Like a mother.
Don’t straighten your make-up, re-calibrate your clothes. It won’t make me change my mind. The trajectory of my questioning is keyed. I’m headed for your swerves, your skids, your fishtails… soiled, sordid chicaneries, i.e. your brain’s most lizardly sanctuaries, most manipulative little hatchlings.
I’m not talking down to you. Or if I am, I don’t mean to. Just don’t ask me for change. Or if you do, make it like that Meek stencil (“Keep your coins, I want CHANGE”), with full-blown political statement backlighting your plight. Stencil art strays via iconography into viral marketing, offers repeatable results, multiplies a product through a neighbourhood or even a whole city or even deeper and higher still.
[I stole this theory from a guy I spoke to at a party a few weeks back. You were at the party too, but no one saw you.]
I think you wanted to control, nudge my faders, split my cables. I got ransacked by you. Control is never harmlessly itself, but it’s usually impeccably presented. You were always dressed up like a Superpower.
Is that where you score – on the street? How the mighty are forlorn.
The subtext of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is that bright rainbows of designer drugs could invade our schools, and look what’s happened. Not that I blame you.
III
Looking for a challenge? Sure you are.
You’re forever high, scratching away
concrete skies
lost so much time freezeframed
Sometimes I go digging through dusty old albums
the genealogy of your sexual knowledge,
glossary of your wildest. The vinyl warped by sixteen summers.
I argue with old songs.
[lot of your opinions I don’t think are just.]
And yet I can still catch the beery bittersweet.
A rare connectivity when we first. Between and beyond. As if I could face the sun, head the moon.
When we forked, I didn’t mince my words; I said, “I can dream without you.”
blackberries
fractal
Slowmotion into
tzatziki
Copies
And then later in my dream you are Kirstie Alley. You went public about the length of time you had gone without sexual relations: 4.5 years, because, you said, you didn’t want to have “fat sex.” Oh it was lovely, just lovely... I woke up with $36,000 and a new haircut.
I can see things in the blur that trails behind you, truths that Tom Waits would baulk at; “the cosmos does not evolve but technology, on the other hand, does.”
IV
You never said no, never refused anything. You would have shared tapas and boutique piss with the Menem government in Buenos Aires. If you could.
You never made a fuss. Although you never could abide inflatables; didn’t do prosthetics. You self-styled as untouched, sustainable. I found it sexy like smoke and mirrors.
Your credo was stereoscopy, South Yarra style:
more fashionable than scientology at least (the Kirstie Alley dream is a haunter).
Each year, a meat-vivid original, a surprise movie comes to light us. That was you in 2001. Scooped the awards, bombarded the bank with seeds, growth flowering harvest. The economy of one-liners. Now you’ve still got a little pollen dust above your lip, hanging like a plaque, saying, “This was my success”. This was your secret.
But this is (or at least was) our home, and this is your captain speaking. Kirstie Alley has written a book called How to Lose Your Ass and Regain Your Life. I’m not recommending it. But it promises to be an opus in the metamorphic tradition. It would make Kafka cough, Ovid ovulate. It might make you sing again. Maybe not like you used to, headful of Jazz and other abstract furniture, burrowing deep through the octaves, encountering cigarette butts from the paleolithic period… and gravel, lots of it. But singing nonetheless.
If I’m repeating myself it’s because once the secret is betrayed, it spreads like an epidemic, a rash sandpapering our skin. All the sins of the tribe are supposed to be transferred. Dirty mandalas are their vessels.
Are you
Of raven or
Crow,
Nightblack bird?
Can you taste the difference?
V
The bridge was not designed to carry large pedestrian crowds. And we are like this.
In this megalopolis of. Bacteria. In this megalopolis of. Weekly email updates. In this megalopolis of. Highly-trained consultants. In this megalopolis of. Potassium drought. In this megalopolis of. Financial support,
they clear the decks for new Darwinian beginnings
and you are but a
Lollipop
Blow job
(I could almost love you).
Notes
* Uranium-235 is an isotope of uranium that differs from the element's other common isotope, uranium-238, by its ability to cause a rapidly expanding fission chain reaction.
* Carlos Menem was president of Argentina from 1989 to 1999.
* Kirstie Alley really has written a book entitled How to Lose Your Ass and Regain Your Life. She is a scientologist, and is probably best known for her performances in the TV series Cheers and the Look Who's Talking series of films. Alley has become an anti-obesity campaigner, and is a spokesperson for the Jenny Craig weight-loss program. Recently she admitted to not having had sex for four and a half years, because she didn't want to have "fat sex".
* Meek is Melbourne stencil artist. I can post images of / links to his work if anyone's interested. (I would do that now, but it seems the quality links I had are now dead).
(c) Stu Hatton 2005
http://wordyness.blogspot.com/2005/10/kirstie-alley-dream-2005.html
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