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At Critical Mass "...where there is a wound, there is a subject: 'die Wunde! die Wunde!' says Parsifal, thereby becoming 'himself'; and the deeper the wound, at the body's centre (at the 'heart'), the more the subject becomes a subject: for the subject is 'intimacy' ('The wound ... is of a frightful intimacy'). Such is love's wound, a radical chasm (at the 'roots' of being), which cannot be closed, and out of which the subject drains, constituting himself as a subject in this very draining." - Roland Barthes, 'A Lover's Discourse' Go, then, to your Church. Go. Then enquire if your saints know anything of desire because I am dispensed from love. I am a dragonfly dispensed from its pupa, I emerge in the clarion stupor of desire in its brightest sharpest flame. I am open wounds forever burning conflagrated by my object turning turning ever turning from me. Go, then: pray and pray that you'll be left unbroken, pray and pray----yes, as often as you can---- your saints spare you the creation I feel, to be as fissile as this broken man I am, the overloaded atom's whirl I am, the white-hot core. Do not embrace me, for lo! I explode in your face. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2010-01-24 17:25:50
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mark,
No love, no how! I understand and know of your emotion.
If one would or could love you, you would be fixed.
Righted! We spend our lifetime searching for the one to fill the void.
One upon the other taking their turn.....
Ready to explode if only you would.....
Pray/hope that it changes. You feel so alone. Everyone else seems loved.
And the day comes when you figure it all out.
If only our personal feelings would be set aside....and we could see.
Dellena