CUT UP // Julia Lee Barclay

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.