Bodies of Difference
A Different Body Experiences
A Different Universe Endlessly subject to
re-interpretation
re-formation


   
 
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Intercut
rows of order reference our Sociology
Psychology Medical Text selves
the displacement of our real
defined by other - salivating us
suggest a critique: the rise of 'professionalism'
open yet amusing at a light relief level
the shots called
similar for
(the word sticks then revolts itself) "Care Agencies"
filming lightly the true order
glassing glossing with smears the record of lives
each life archive displayed or neatly cartoned:
archival preservation quality; acid free;
guaranteed for a hundred years,
a thousand?
documents amalgamated, the file
construed us - the rise of 'professionalism'
books our role,
its effect

This incorporates an image idea
the text one into First thought
a performance pieces of performance laid out to view.
("I don't want to do any more performances at this time"
I don't want to but will I be allowed not to
people unfurl and drape the curtain of their curiosity
sometime a round stage but illusion
proscenium fixated)
A figure as a medical reference book fine drawn plate
wearing clothes though
An everyday look and photographed
Labeled with a flourish 'BODY'
Copperplate as near as digital
Jointed information providing description not related
but what is related:
what it is to take a drive; watching; hearing this particularised
derogatory comment
a precise moment
like moment stretch of pain experiencing
or something differently
an example: eating
(Vary the instances for comparison - a sighted study)
in this a specific relationship
This description or individuated words given Latin
Translation
Singular words untranslated
just leave, left
Latin
Latin English given
named acquaintances; cartoon characters; attached and naming
body
attached and naming a usual a 'normal'
functioning: walk: sit

The last minute was it me,
'I' constructed then?
Will it be the right construction the next
minute and the next
lifelong?
I relied on you will it be me?









through worn windows
the week hunched into
restless obsession
obsession skips one in crisp spirals
immoveable daylight curving farther the oblong
fear wrinkled trailed holes
miracle smooth obsession
lines crosshatch continents quivering
in shiver light
narrow encasing years
h









Consider transitions
intercut this swift order
cold moment
annexed
scummble large the skin

Lost for a while she regained, pushed with boldness down
the centre of the aisle on entering the hall, the market place
A rapid desire to reconstrue space
her hands clutching handfuls she placed the edge
not feeling but it falling away on passing
From within her side, her left side "I'm alive, duck" or "I've lived, duck" called her mother
The voice split a passage from waist to lymph nodes removed
the left mirror right
personal experience, that memorabilia too marketed

and dust motes, music notes death,
spilled 'the point' to shadows -
for what is the point?
perseverance perverse
but she or I continued even whilst long done images, actions
swept like pelvic bone meat cleavering, cut as weapon,
splintering the unhappy bustle of lived,

a dressed lengthwise half of animal carcass

and threw up the blanket, this raveling grey claustrum
times worn to a sequence
of all philosophical these words clutter to earthworms
which spreads half way with violent neural pain around the body
like a girdle attended
like an enacting girdle
Limbo dance cuisine
Living through experience our memory becomes
and the forgetting?

A distinct girdle, band of colour, a raised spiral line









boys lit matches on the bridge,
on windless days they fixed in grooves straight rows
passed hands over closer, closer, this small chicken run.
No, girls did this.
Boys imagined fires they could start.
No, girls did this, pyromaniacs lighting fires in shop doorways
or bedrooms. Afterwards judged right to steal their little flames,
15, 20, 30 years, until release theories realised,
new academics developed, or was it a speculative development?
Boys strike matches, scrutinising white and blue,
fantasizing the sulphur tips, scientific.








If I had sunglass eyes I'd know contrast.
With shades, skies would be blistering revelations,
clouds opening for glory, rays presenting
a renaissance resurrection and branches
massing calligraphy against sunset tones.
All leveling, "visionary" at my conversation then









Deciding not to go

Visualizing myself at the seminar
I sat watching listening to the crowd,
sketching the imagining,
the response breathed

Walker and I played darts
on the day I didn't hear Derrida speak.
If the board was on the floor
I'd get a better score.









Metaphor snow not cold,
nor slip wet slosh.
Startles no dread
of dismal entrapment,
neither is it bliss.









Heathside lane, either side an institution homes

They push against the railings slender heads bow
some disdain or is that dejectedly accept and look away
their habitude root them to the spot

Heathside lane and either side an institution homes









give me a caribou walk
asway, asway, asway


A brush with subtlety.

In the
institution,
the staff
were
dismayed
to find her
using a
hairbrush.
Rushing
to their
supervisor,
he surprised
by saying
to provide
her with a
dildo. Just
suppose
though
it wasn't
penetration
she'd
discovered
but the
pleasurable
action of
soft bristles
on waiting
bead of flesh,
for some
people learn
whatever
is done to
prevent
them.


give me a caribou walk
asway, asway, asway









Our mouths open, two upright pianos.
Red wood tongue flick over keys,
the music slips to the floor.









Strong Slaughter

It rancours to read,
'a strong character',
'a weak character',
'weak judgement',
'strong judgement'.
My hands are too weak
to even hold a gun, let
alone pull the trigger
and harm someone.
Those shooting randomly
are often called 'sick',
when I've been ill,
I don't want to kill,
can't even summon
the will to crawl
from the bed.
Perhaps it's different
for you being fit
and strong, you
have all you need
whenever you want,
to wield weapons,
declare wars,
to slaughter
absolutely
everyone.









Latent

If your interpretation
bores, fabricate a new one,
Leave your deposits, miners
on a continual last shift.

Meaning









From Procedural Definitions:

Social Service Care Plan:-
Proposal to gild a few bars of the cage.
Alternatively, if cost of gilding above a
set amount, detailed in appendix 'c',
replacement of bars with steel sheets -
institutional grade. 'Social Service Care
Plan' is preceded and decided by,
'Social Service Assessment of Needs'

Social Service Assessment of Needs:-
A dimmed torch shined into the cage,
with the intention to see as little as
financially appropriate. This decides
'Social Service Care Plan', facilitated
by a process of operational 'welding'.

Welding:-
a process of softening
with heat and
applying pressure.









Alive lengthening.

This morning, this day and this and this,
repeatedly replaced, displaced,
piled, layered, lightning strike - time -
a move through room after room, the past, dust
dry leave, left cornering floor to wall.
Empty not full.
No trace of things nor people (or a unheard murmur only).
Nothing signifying memories of this or that event,
to clarify, re-work, abandon.
Instead a tone, timbre, light, reflection, shadow play,
move
change
alter,
before a grasping, just enough to destabilise,
carry through emotions not
laced to now yet not determinable either.
Not stuck in then nor released.
A past too full nothing could hold, sort,
a solution, to let be, waves washing through, making
reactive connections no separation.









Brand             Am I  owned or sold                  Naming

Mr Bell Mr Parkinson Mr Hughes Mr Hodgkin Mr Alzheimer
Mr Bell Mr Parkinson Mr Hughes Mr Hodgkin Mr Alzheimer
Mr Bell Mr Parkinson Mr Hughes Mr Hodgkin Mr Alzheimer


Brand.

All, so lightly assign some disease or other to me.
Who questioned it's ease less nature or it's naming?
Who gave these spurious individuals the nod,
the right of enlarging their ego's with names for this
and names for that - no substance to their calling?
Most piquant to be defined by a surname, not ones
own, not from someone conversant with the experience
but usually men, white, with self-written certificates
proclaiming their authority. A namer names in ignorance
and we are saddled, branded with their delight.

Naming.


Mr Bell Mr Parkinson Mr Hughes Mr Hodgkin Mr Alzheimer
Mr Bell Mr Parkinson Mr Hughes Mr Hodgkin Mr Alzheimer
Mr Bell Mr Parkinson Mr Hughes Mr Hodgkin Mr Alzheimer









Away, stay, return.

"Wheelchair on the line,
arriving on train 17:37."
Point of departure,
point of arrival,
wit crystallised.
Repeat connection.
Repeat, repeat, repeat.
"Wheelchair on the line."

Thursday - The Installation - Step assistance.

"It's all right, I understand, I'm used to this, my mother has..."
then he names a medical term, not that assigned to me -
no differentiation.
Pathologised again.
A classic response.
As he assists a non-disabled woman do I hear,
"It's okay, I understand, I'm used to this, my mother has a uterus"
No, surely not.

The Conference.

Friday - Where is Faith in this Cyberfeminist interplay?

No cybercripp women report on the
cyberfem conference just concluded -
strange as we the bearers of difference,
always the experimental lives.
A mild, no, not suggestion rather complaint,
that we are the missing now from feminism -
our occasional mention, access only of course,
long disappeared - elicits,
"Are you American" from an American
and to my nonplus no, I'm told of much activity
going on in the US. No specifics and my net trawls
have not revealed this plenty but that's my lot,
I'm dealt with swiftly if not elegantly. Absence sidelined,
notwithstanding earlier regrets at feminism's unsecured territory.
Later she abruptly left another discussion as I start to say,
"Disabled people..."
Where is Faith?
She left the site empty.  

Sunday.

Another woman on another panel not mine.
Is that awareness, humour, surely I'm not mistaken?
Oh, let it be just for once, for the
variation if nothing else,
oh yes, let's DeeDee-deviate.
At the end, having spoken, been quoted even,
I approach, a different person wanting
a different response, recognition not fearful dismissal.
Immediately am offered, before my words reached her ears,
"Give me your address I'll put you in touch
with a woman who's disabled and works with..."
Repeats, repeats, DeeDee-desperate not to connect.
What does she see, alien creature
or her uncontrollable self mirrored?
And to the black woman heading her way, will it be -
"please don't talk to me, instead I know a
black woman if you give me your address,
I'll put you in contact?"
No, I know that won't be the case here,
this difference appears to have been uneasily
negotiated, much less troublesome but I suspect
no real acquaintance. How can there be when
white woman chairs meetings, women white
interview women black as if one sits comfortably,
the other to be presented. Perhaps we could rebel
together and take the floor, a far larger constituency
than a meagre table no matter how long.

And Saturday, what happened then?
I spoke on Saturday
about representing ourselves not the other.
And made the decision not to be carried up any more stairs,
so debates around access became inaccessible and equality
fell to apartheid.
I toured the city and assumed I was
because of Carole.
Some women pass the test.

"Wheelchair on the line,
arriving on train 17:36."
Point of departure,
point of arrival,
wit crystallised.
Repeat connection.
Repeat, repeat, repeat.
"Wheelchair on the line."









As paper in the gutter, transparent,
except for shadow lines
embracing a position.
The decisions made, being made,
here I sit, not going in,
as if that room tells things
unavoidable, razor reality.
Not wanting the move away from
the warm sweep of retold lives,
presented to comfort or cajole
the audience into belief,
into a spirit of overcoming,
though acceptance the result,
rawness replaced, no matter how
bloody in its first unfolding.
Still I sit avoiding,
uncomforted, unbelieving.
The film unfolds.  









Orchids and women and islands and men.

Ironside
owned
an island,
allowing
only
orchids
to grow  
and
palm trees
of course.
When he
was too old
he sold the
island to a
man who
would be
god.
Nine women
live with him,
bow before
his photograph,
drink water
used to
wash
his feet.

Orchids and women and islands and men.









Pass port - Rules of identifying.

I'm not trusted to witness
identity,
who've rubbed life through my fingers,
twisted it wire bare,
dragged between memories and
flesh uninsulated,
certainties exposed.
Yet judges -
lives lived in velvet glove -
who display ignorance, corruption
regularly revealed, are professionals,
to be depended upon.
Accepted too are doctors,
whose experience stretches to
disease on a screen or
separated by only a desk.
What confers this trust -
seems like all it takes
is a few years education
at a university, where
lectures, teachers too conform
to requirements. So it comes full
circle, rules benefit rule makers.
My GP charged £7.50 for her
esteemed signature, more
than a tenth of my income.









Spite Care.

He, social worker insists on talking
'respite care', repeating the term,
even though I quite clearly say it's
not applicable and show distress.

'Respite care',
words mislaced,
represent power to
annihilate not relieve.
Respite, despite it's look
is to de-spirit,

A dictionary written by the
unknowing says,
"Respite -
(b) To keep back from
execution; to reprieve."
A meaning wrong, it's our
slow execution; demise;
death penalty.
I spit out their respite,
skewer it red hot,
return to their careless spite.

'Respite care' is time in an institution,
not an honoured one of beauty where
paintings are kept or old furniture,
yet we too are objects, though stored,
an unapprehended archive in the
basement or backroom of life,
crushed, dusty. 'Residential care' is
the institution until death version -
dead man not walking but waiting,
without prospect of reprieve ever.
Isn't so much of our living institutional
without choices, a penal servitude
but when did the sentencing take place
and who defended my rights?









Cinematic Solitaire.

Cinematic.           Solitaire.

Men play           Is there an
poker                    unplayable
and                          game,
trumpets.                 circumstances
Women                       stacked,
strip or,                         trapped in
silently voice                 mis-ordered sets
the profound,                  or is the trap
with their                           the game's played
cheekbones.                         before time?

---

Cinematic - The look.

So many women
looking today,
looking through
windows, framed.
They look we see
not what they do.
What do we see?
We gaze at them.

An older woman
is allowed to shout,
though
not necessarily
be listened to.









Altering me, my kind made
Christ's reputation, even
as I rejected, ejected
from a perfect paradise.
His preaching, teaching
was not acceptance of this
body, as rightful to be,
as it was, as it is, equal.









Memories breeze unrequested,
settle barbed wire on the digestion.
Life mainly on hold,
unapprehended,
waits to be relived, releaved,
(a renewed binding?)
then, when revisited not annihilated,
details remembered can build a past,
move from  bruised abdomen,
silently scoured,
to remembrances played through,
drawn profound,
this bag of vagaries.









Eyes closed,
curtains drawn,
a bird calls,
space
stainless
steel,
scoured,
domed,
we the dish
beneath.









Pushed to living just below the ceiling,
our heads scrape spider's webs, charged
in myths, share, maybe, caught illusions.
History's wrapping layered beneath.









No Reprieve.

She read and immediately, shaking,
hid the letter deep
in the folds of her blouse,
down to bone, lying beyond flesh.
"Cowardice"
nestling in marrow.
"Shot for"
settling beneath the flow of blood cells.
Buried it yet
tight embraced by it this moment stretch,
seventy, eighty, ninety years, no pardon.
And through these poverty years -
pension withdrawn for his particular dying,
each armistice day raised a measured beat of
bitterness, as other men remembered, he
forgotten,
not aging but absent.
He a small, short flash of young life,
slipping one daughter into the world
as he sharp
driven from it.
Now injustice lies buried with them both.

We're told the past is inappropriate for re-evaluation, lying
beyond criticism, not for us to absolve, reinstate dignity.
The present pragmatically accommodates terrorism.









80 years since armistice day
6 days since bonfire night

What thunder clapping noise?
Not coal mines, filling childhood
nights, the metal trucks load,
unload, pullied movement sound,
when wind in the right direction.
No they, their burrowing
extinct, unwilling closed.
Not ghost echoes either, down
the long years dull passage,
though sometime a summer
breeze spoke the Somme. Dust
shadow my cheek, as each
armistice celebrated or
commemorated my birthday
or deathday, the boundaries
blurred when dug in deep.
Yet even so I do not hear
reverberations from shovels,
scraping, chafing, earth muffled,
earth  sharp,
nor the final conversion
when underground ascends to heaven,
a mountain range of men erupts.
Those years of diligent tunnelling
explode a thousand feet, the noise
travelling to silent countries where
strategists dreamed and planned
Are the dead haunted?
Do they hear nightmares?









Moving bottles,
adjusting glass,
not vibrant colour,
not wine decanters,
no chemical phials
or urine specimens.
Though needed she
couldn't align labels,
instead she imagines,
an encyclopaedia of
markers, colours,
bodily fluids, with no
thought of perfume flasks.









Reduced Readings.

He poets move in intense blue fading,
rock sometimes, heel toe comforts,
then arrhythmic as old newsreel.
They map the evening with old,
slow stories, take a drink, quench
our thirst and so conduct the audience.
Plants wagon-train encircle, their
performance, variegated, defence,
attack. This ring's not ancient,
a rushed contrivance, laid for an
evening, yet as these, something passed
from one to the next, not just concept,
not fully substance either, words stretch
back to reach forward, time root.
Needs to verse, verse-imagine long.
I though am left pushing fingers through,
rake, painfully seeking to understand,
does poetry only cover, reflect an indulging,
rolling in the grass, in the curling waves,
each ones own, not obsessions, these
spin outwards as in but something less,
something poorer - my friend's child,
sucking a red sweet says "strawberry"
his mother replies, "just sugar".
Is my wanting other, an illusion?









Crease, crease, crease,
Creep along the folded
edge. Make no demands.
Measure your progress
with infinite care. A
ruler with millimetres
marked. Weigh each dent
compare with energy
loss, energy demanded.









The Poet's Photograph.

This neck rises from the collar
- stars in their middle years -
her neck rolls upwards
flesh ripples
neck stretch
ripples flesh
downwards
time sustained
- stars in old age and death -
invisible waves
see stellar birth
- young stars forming here -

intellect, passion flow
this neck rises from the collar
poetry here edges
we alchemical stellar mothers all.









'a mazos' - without breast

in this mythological land           exploration
of
minotaur machines, centering a medical labyrinth,
gateing the underworld, cryptic grammars, where
irregularities
write my delicate skin, my streaked overwriting,
I came across and thought to use, how women,
warriors of Scythia,
more effectively to draw bow, throw javelin,
seared their daughter's right breast.
Right never left, the contra-handed forced to use
a less competent arm, surely not?

Artists partial to the subject, at first
lay bare this side unbreasted.
(I wondered, if I dare, what it'd be
to follow suit, create a look exclusive.)
Later - take any classical period -
depiction altered, a breast, in singularity
reigning, was never shown. How predictable,
then as now, a prosthesis inflicted
concealing flat truth beneath.

And of my desire for select look?
Obsessed stares attend the asymmetrical
clothed, covering only the breast remaining
could cause hysteria and to impose neurosis,
seems not quite the clean wound of arrow or spear. So,
am I too complicitous in censoring,
though prosthesis remains pristine new, silicone
snuggles at 'rest' shape retained
in plastic mould, boxed for eternity?

Using the experience of the Scythian warriors to match,
compare with mine, seemed, at first glance,
to extend the journey, widen the deep,
on reflection it appeared unbelievable - what, they'd burn
their daughter's bodies needlessly? Attempt to emulate,
of themselves make part males? No, rather they'd
invent weapons, breasts not detrimental,
asset even or, knowing women,
sharpen diplomatic skills instead.

'Hearing of matriarchies to the east...'
so started the play of these tales. These women
always located on the fringe of a world, when boundaries
of the known shift, in their displacement are resettled,
remaining in fantasy, a land where the other not quietly resides.
Pushing against
the fringe
of the world's edge
I inhabit, girls, women
of myriad difference, who lived yet didn't,
their unknown, unrelieved arts, inventions, narratives, verse, designs,
discoveries never to be.
Yes, we-they existed with the women warriors of Scythia,
you've probably heard us mentioned, talked about in raucous whispers
not people different but fabulous,
I saddened always by our fate, the fate of the variant,
you name us
monsters.
Strange that I,
repulsive cripple,
am too a mazos
- without breast -
yet not so strange for who more than we should own the name
women warriors sustaining our lives,
Amazons true.









Today the razor familiar,
reinstated hinged counting,
He feared the edge of his face,
substantial on middle perception
edges reflected the shine of fear.
Devoid, skin slip half towards
the edge of history









The sea has made a room for me,
straight walls of tide water,
curve to shine streaked liquid-leaves,
tapered to roof a covering. Their
variegated translucent strap, foam
frill an opening for breath









Perfect Fruit

colour cherished
shape distinguished
proportions measured
irregularities none
appearance perfection
a fit package
except when
lips touch
teeth bite
tongue taste
flavour
absent









I a childhood body wrong,

I a childhood body wrong,
diagrammed differently than
objectives silently stated.
So the struggle starts.
You, hammer in hand,
willing to rearrange,
to package, all the world
into the smallest
component of your
imagination, fearing
the wide spread.
With soldering iron
I must be rewired for
desires not mine,
someone else's safety,
not I  secure,
not I secure ever again
and when my lived insecurity
scares your complacency,
I again, my attitude not
attaining your conformity,
face the searing heat of
your dullness, anvil ready
to outstrip where I outshine.









Light reflects his face, absorption refuses its return.
He seeks some desire, soft, waterproof, curled, unfurled,
a sheets comfort. Not everyone's fingers yearn to redress.
Her, as to out desire him, forces the movement, back, away,
repudiates.









Knocking On.

Last year, this year, next year, sometime, never.
Last year.

The years pile up,
blocks pushing,
swifter and swifter,
weight shoving a hip,
shunting a shoulder,
unwieldy in memory,
heavier than at the time.
Suddenly space stops. Halted
and for a while, with nowhere else to go,
momentum throws weight skywards, holds a second,
less, then fast plummets to our always ground.

Or we pinioned between our inexorable past and our no future,
the interminable moment imprints on our transparency.

(Remains unresolved.)









Blue black room
glass shavings
reflect.
False floor, a second level cornering space.
Tan planks, beeswax buffed, their grooves though
hadn't surrendered incident stains









Terrain Other

Warm time clouds water, like tasting sea pieces

Swift landscape widens its neck,
walk weather, skin sluice water.
A ricochet sea.
Undulating walk, delight dunes.
almost merged, feet felt
skeleton glass task,
would recover a summer attention,
more as dunes remain

My fragile reality enclosed a rush,
whispers from the context of real life.
Bodied gestures,
unpredictable,
head towards the disputed past,
beneath my witness listen,
ribbed word, green bent protect
but no one ever answers, no interpreter.
We become as shavings, image falling to judgment

Enveloped in soft waiting,
rigid patterns identifying their difference,
marking where comparison falls,
our pain, right body.
My once sea skin forgotten as it flows
to its contained, constrained appearance.









Enveloped in soft chair comfort,
she appreciates the moment
a smooth stone to hold.
Cherishing its cool movement,
embedded in noon night sand,
a temperature transference
with the heat of her palm.
Rushing beneath the table,
hustling between the legs of chairs,
he seeks some desire or other.









Bench Mark

The bench stretch little or long,
maybe only till
Thursday, Friday
- it being Tuesday now,
or
a season more,
maybe into another decade
but whenever, it's not only
sitting next to the dead I
and being the
dying I,
it's just being the me of then,
receiving attitudes raining down
or silence.
Me small
evaluated,
belittled to the
density of
my, oh so personal
yet
touching
universal, horror.
Which we only know who experience
and only dread who've unluckily
sat on that
particular or very similar, bench before.
Most only know it the once,
they
running about the park,
lying in the grass,
paddling in the fountain.









Archiving Lives

Slapping their thighs, licking their lips
come the young, the wanting, the easily bored.
They desperate, hot like the breath of horses,
snort up our lives and as quickly are done,
their curiosity cooling like cold, old dung.
Whereas we, once attention sculpts our form,
no longer shapeless statues waiting, details
stirring visibly our vitality, we are possessive.
Our hold grows, not wanting to release their
questions, their cameras, their interest, their
lives, our grip intensifies. Usually they are long
gone, bits of our existence clenched in their teeth,
occasionally though we obsess and keep their
life with ours, settled in graves somewhere.









cockroaches stalking
yet waiting silently,
like cold back, living bones,
agile below









Smouldering
in the old film, the old star, the now dead star,
slight movements, face activity suggest
he's troubled with enlarged dick, enlarged balls,
uncontainable in trousers walking,
difficult to position comfortably sitting.
A continuously hard penis. Was that his talent?
Could this be the erogenous method of acting.
Female stars slightly regarded, beheld so often as
not much more than genitalia walking,
acting skills discounted
yet here he is, ringed gristle hydraulics in a suit.









Blue black room
glass shavings
reflect.
False floor, a second level cornering space.
Tan planks, beeswax buffed, their grooves though
hadn't surrendered incident stains









So unoriginal these enabled
all give pity, are they clones,
not a differentiated cell between?
I could pity too, they like Dolly sheep,
bereft of wit and individuality.
I can't tell one from another
the blend is bland









Light reflects his face, absorption refuses its return.
He seeks some desire, soft, waterproof, curled, unfurled,
a sheets comfort. Not everyone's fingers yearn to redress.
Her, as to out desire him, forces the movement, back, away,
repudiates.







"Bless"
bless bless bless
less less less  less less
less lessssssss
ssssss, bless

"itís a shame"
shame shame shame am am
am shame
ham sham sham sham
aa aaa aa a you shamm



p   i    t   y

covers

a vomit
rep eat ed
regard
with dis gust

project   i   on


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Bodies of Difference
A Different Body Experiences
A Different Universe