A Dance in Four Frames The sun and I in this house, where’s his silence? Dance in my floating above you, above them. I kill, he keeps on writing The woman takes a bite of spring. (Who shall say I’m not, prin tot dansul ei, * Speech is a way of slipping in (subliminal) information Understand [what you want them (subliminal) * Against any personal communication. The existent is a sexuate body. The surface (uneven, steep, and unwholesome) was inhabited by countless populations. The existent is a sexuate body! Frame 2 Mars embracing Venus in a sleep of no return. They roll over; hatred for them ends up in a mating dream, with daddy penetrating his little girl’s vagina while she’s insatiably licking mom’s clitoris—a ménage à trois… the day is finally here, she can bite now, she can enjoy them, happily chewing her dad’s penis her mom’s vulva, sucking their blood out, stripping their skin off, exposing the inside to the world they’ve been hiding away from. She swallows them. Frame 3 Naked women’s bodies. Merely gaunt one after another bones poking through the skin. The air close to blowing up with commandments. No one can grasp anything else. The only way of communication sounding rough to the ears of those waiting. Now and then a vagina would open up like a cactus blossom. Commotion bursting out of non-resistance. Swimming all of ’em swimming in a sea of bodies with no place to reach in mind. Where you headed? All a rustle, rustle of listless limbs. Words springing up faster and faster more and more. Not a trace of silence in the dead silence. Oftentimes the night wind buries everything in leaves. Frame 4 Space as matter’s fundamental form of existence, inseparable from it, having the appearance of a contiguous whole with three dimensions and showcasing objects and processes in their ordered array can fill up. And it did fill up. Objects stifling all room round. They always come in successive waves, incessantly, carried by the southern wind. Countless. Roundish breasts, as full as a hilly orchard, smooth thighs, arms whiter than any recollection of snow, and… hopefully, lips, the mellow kind, a woman’s lips now close to ripeness. That is the fruit he savors, tasty, tender, breaking between his teeth: Imaginary soliloquy attached to the frames: bitch! whore cunt scum slut hooker floozy puta pantsy tootsie fluffy mouthy chippy coc(k)(h)otte broad dame madame doxy antsy-pantsy-farty-damsel hobo’s-bimbo ranch-wench cock-wrench tramp vamp hot-to-trot flirt tart fussy-hussy fancy hustler straight streetwalker car-men’s-putana boor’s-burana buena gris-gris grisette drab-to-grab no-jinx-minx pro pro-bono-masterbono pros-tit-hoot charge-a-lot-harlot tax-worker sweetheart-tart smart-head-job-artiste outskirts-skirt dirt translated from the Romanian by MARGENTO “These frames are part of my continued investigation into the process of self-representation and discourse analysis. A frame is a cadre, a border, a machine and a body, a structure – an internal structure, a skeleton. The resolution of a well-structured discourse inside a frame/ border becomes an image of an alienated body/ a putrefaction (the process of putrefying) which parasites the whiteness of a clean page or the meaning of a phrase. And a meaningless place is born. And silence speaks. Decomposition of a corpse is a continual process, it involves invisible microorganisms/ nonsensical meaningful words. All those microorganisms are reached using a subtraction technique – the unseen appears as a web of in-between relations – annihilation, destruction, and control of, possessing of something/somebody. In words. In a putrid discourse.”
The formation of the Ego is symbolized in dreams by a fortress or a stadium – an interior yard fenced, surrounded by swamps or garbage, dividing it in two opposing areas, where the subject struggles to reach the imposing and distant castle whose form (sometimes present in the same scenario) symbolizes the ID in a staggering way.
sli
(yet
one
more
step
over
us two)
pping
How come you don’t get these pieces?
Laid together by words
Of your girl running in the shadow
On the whale’s edge, now here
My father loves our silence,
Thought crushed in voices. Listen.
„I’m the sun of his son, the son of the son.”
the happy genius of my household?)
Sli
(a step
in dance
over
folio. You)
pping
destroy (yourselves) on this folio here. As soon as today, again. Then, our steps alone over the father.
Of helping those that don’t understand (subliminal)
To understand].
Speech is a way of levelling things.
Against any illusionary I.
Only the cold analysis of the images between us.
*
Frame 1
Iulia Militaru is a poet/ performer and so on, also the Editor in Chief of frACTalia Press and InterRe:ACT magazine. Her poetry collections: The Great Pipe Epic (2010), dramadoll (2012), The Seizure of the Beast. A Post-research (2016) and Atlas (auto)mat/on (auto)BIO/graphy/I© de câteva tipuri principale de discursuri (2017), are everything but poetry. She published poems and digital collages in MAINTENANT, A Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art (#9 #10 #11) and Plume (the June Issue 2017 #71). One can find more about her literary work here: https://iuliamilitaru.wordpress.com/
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