What’s wrong with your face? I must be unbelievably cooking. How
do I actually look out of sheer hunger?
men of devotion despair with sobs Because of its structure, isolates her
from any meaningful-
but then I stopped once the way
through my head I don’t have enough time to fill them all
men I see them everywhere, they’re just around the corner
I found myself be monster notes on acting among others...
I did not know to let these dead bodies
stop this nonsense. I felt no emotion. They are apt.
Like the living world? I don’t want to be seen waiting.
Behold ‘yond simpering female protest -
whose face is the reason why virtue transitions
to the affirmatively trivial
when hearing of pleasures written by women
Gods inherit live prey - they lunge
forward and there is the sulphurous
meal, CONSUMPTION, pulling me up.
Discovers, like chameleons,
she can change color to match many dark rooms,
from drab to psychedelic in a matter of
moments. They can even grow skin to better
mimic laced rooms. The camouflage is both
defensive and offensive.
They are centaurs, ambush hunters, Another type of dissertation?
forced to loving.
no sense, you got theories,
suggestions,schemes for imagination
Void of thought, devoid of fantasy.
I could continue to stand new results fifty thousand fascists each time I feel
content
What does it matter? My body obeys
motherly legend.
Give me an ounce of my imagination Beneath is all the fiend which gives a
positive treatment to hell:
the mother’s ragged role has not changed.
I speak in language where I am nothing:
closely linked to the point of view of broken
umbrellas
I’m in the death of autonomous lock up
-
I’m in the death of action - their theories
positing how long I had been there: infinitely,
no movement, no thought to just FALL DOWN.
I’m moving.
It’s gone.
It hits me: misleading images What you want you don’t have.
Grammar was seen as a language to
grind a longshoreman into the production
of useless words. Thoughts of the maker with her mother
Whatever.
Paying no attention to the ghost. This brief moment starved my forehead,
bit my tongue madly.
It caused a fairly good pain. Yes, but what shall I do?
The ambiguities are usually recorded only
by the enemy in characters’ protest. there was no more deserted shroud, and
demand for towering limestone cliffs
with the boom in the Chinese economy
in captivity they are sold as key rings,
paperweights and mobiles, a billion
Chinese, many goddamn scared
Here I was, walking around disguised -
consumed by the feminine. A freak from hunger,
I had slept in men’s literature -
those eternally recurring fogs -
read till my eyes fell out -
where they were windows.
I’m in the death of literature which
attempts to grasp fists - so help me God -
getting out.
I went on and roared to punish my flesh:
here where I am, laughing wildly whenever
I stamped on the sidewalk sex cannot be persuaded to cheat
they have eyes for no other:
a tiny speck bobbled above the shape it moved, dotted that area, marked a
human presence.
It was the light for it marked the blackness
of the mouth
Her silences, her gestures traverse the
discourses - thorny and zig-zag ones -
Time, it’s final.
“You’ll fall”
she screamed.
We need to put the brakes on now. IT blew, a courtship ritual of quivering
and dancing round and round a blade of
sea grass.
IT looked down, serene almost, thought
was like figurines on a music box. I believe when they believe.
He was determined to haul freight. There’s a catastrophic collapse deterred
by loneliness.
I gathered fanatics on the pavilion,
having to kill the widows war
my minds bent. I gathered morning well.
Where I am, nothing is who he is: An ideology of true love?
The marriage of true tension has
disappeared - our heroine now sees that
my hoping for it has given a framework There are multitudes - each one myself.
Just give up thy flesh . As long as we die, the rewards are
bodies rising from the ashes.
Fall. But it just seems like a woman’s shape.
Punch a hole in my entire life. Son of a father, you can reveal church
games.
Mom spends her time skyward blocking,
muttering:
Experience is largely excluded from
organizations sanctioned by society You could brood, Dad, yes, but not a
martyr.
Many of the novels written with more riotous
hands all burned their epic tension, though
women burned to black - an effort to fill empty spaces
or love or gifted stretches - the rhythm of female -
the temporal and spatial recognized hierarchy
forming in my head at night:
I get a “female” language: write letters,
mend the framework:
There are so many smooth social novels
Thought needs attended again - the dead
are rewards. If not, don’t you remember when
everyday conditioned the hands?
She for the first time reflects herself -
this apparent madness is no madness:
not what I think in the death of sanity.
Man will find herself again, if the woman
does not see to be copied. Marry.
If she is prepared to an inkling of this double
life. In the death of a species of jackasses,
able to double myself without the
doubling of the self she retains.
But it seems like my opinion rests on a
specific epic tension...
the boy had tried and had a woman’s shape.
What are the rewards in the hands of the
camps? They have eyes for no other,
lying beside the fire.
Good apothecary - there’s money in the dead.
I finally said to myself: The real can be
overcome
The judgement of your life is
the beautiful time I don’t understand.
I’m in the death of language - Her
silences, her gestures - thin. My eyes
would soon be all - but after what I had
to do
We tried many forms taking on the
shapes of praxis, the dead hanging,
a latent positive jerk reaction.
“Fall”
I had entertained her fears and desires.
Here nothing ends.
Julia Lee Barclay-Morton is an award-winning writer and director whose work has been published and produced internationally; most recently, her stage text Shit was chosen for2018 Cimientos at IATI. Her stage and prose texts have been published online and in printed anthologies, including Prentice-Hall, Stockholm Review, Ohio Edit, The OtherStories, and New York Theatre Experience. When in London (2003-11), she founded Apocryphal Theatre and was awarded a fellowship for her practice-as- research doctorate at University of Northampton, arguing theater can be an act of philosophy. She moved back to NYC in 2011 to research and write a book about her grandmothers divergent paths through the 20th Century, The Amazing True Imaginary Autobiography of Dick and Jani. She teaches workshops, edits, and coaches writers; her blog is Somewhere in Transition.