Pussy! A Progression! Essay 4

By Nikki Darling

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The Master’s House: Review of Return of the Repressed: Destroy All Monsters, 1973-1977
 

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The Master’s House
 
1.     PLAGIARISM
 
I RECALL MY CHILDHOOD
 
My father’s name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Phillip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Peter. So I called myself Peter, and came to be called Peter. – Kathy Acker, Great Expectations
 
But what is Darling’s point of view, what is it saying beyond the decorative jabs–as when overstuffed rich people are served by little Negro boys in livery and powdered wigs while they listen to an appeal for funds to fight hunger? It is saying that boobs on the street are taken in by this girl and believe she’s an ideal success story while we, in the audience are being taught better. – Pauline Kael, Darling
 
It’s true about screens. They do offer some protection. Even honesty can be a screen. – Jon Leon
 
Feelings. Who Needs Them?
 
Feelings, who needs
 
Them unraveling
 
Joni Blue
 
A pill between
 
Teeth and tongue
 
Between a pad of
 
Better and solid
 
Oak door
 
I heard that you were packing heat
 
Destroy me with your phallus.
 
Rip my cunt.
 
I’m so thirsty I could
 
Drown.
 

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SOWEE

 

Destroy More Monsters 

 
 
(Nikki)
 
I just don’t want you to feel crazy again. Or me. I always imagine what a relationship should look like. A real genuine committed healthy relationship. As I get older I think about it more.I know there are things that connect us I still believe I was checking you out at 826LA. Honestly, I’m so sad and lonely here it’s pathetic, but I think I’ll have to be here for a while to do all of the stuff I planned to do to regain my strength, and become the person I should be, for myself and others. It hurts to think about it because I’m bored out of my mind and feel so disconnected from the past, yet still dwelling on it. I want it to all roll off of me. It will…Thanks for sending this. Thanks for being there. I don’t want to send you any of my writing right now. To be honest, part of me being here is to create distance from my old work. I know it’s good, and I’m glad people like it, but I just don’t feel it anymore. I’m gaining on something more positive, more professional, more accessible I hope. This mire of excessive sexual desire and bright fantasies and dark fantasies and hyperbolic narration just feels gone and I won’t miss it because it confirms the cathartic nature of my efforts. And I think, while that is good, a whole life, a full life, would allow energy to disperse differently, and one’s writing would become a more nuanced, considered aspect of living.As writers who must certainly judge the world around us and compare it to what we desire, as so many do, absorb and react to it, we must have a propensity to create another world, a fictive world, in which our thoughts reside. But I wonder about the escapism in that and whether one should look at what is right in front of them instead. I wonder if this leads to a materialist means of apprehending the world, where the logical step is to surround oneself with desirable aesthetically pleasing things rather than inventing them? I mean, one way or the other the world must be made pleasing. Is it safe to only do it in writing? Don’t really successful artists and writers find a way to assimilate? Aren’t tragic artists and writers the ones who could never accept things as they are? I think about these questions.
 
Your hair swept over your face while leaning on that truck…
 

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Back to the Future

 

A word:

 

The fold in method extends to writing the flash back used in films, enabling the writer to move backwards and forwards on his time track –Willy Ess Burroughs

 

 
Eat the Prince
 

oh rad! thanks for the kind words!
i just read your article on rocket queen and the weird zone in the
valley. that’s always been my favorite song on appetite.  the second
half of that song is SO good.  anyway, really awesome article — the
combo of analysis and the funny story about the state of rumba now was
really well done.  (really appreciated the ref to the recording studio
in boogie nights — “that’s a YP not an MP”)….  i didn’t know that
the woman making sex sounds was actually getting fucked for real, by
axl!  jesus h!  ridiculous.

 

i think i mentioned that writer john jeremiah sullivan to you when you
were stoned and calling me a pyscho and i was drunk, so you may not
remember, but anywho, i found his article on axl, i guess it appeared
originally in GQ:
his book “pulp head” is really a fun read.
stoked to check out some of your other work! gotta run and go paint some walls in culver city today!  and yes, karaoke
at some point soon
peace,

 

 

 
Soft cave
 
Water ribbon
 
Falling
 
Black unraveling
 
In the night
 
Birth
 
Desirous monster
 
Masochistic moaning
 
Of broken young
 
Rich boy
 
Cusp beautiful smile
 
White teeth
 
Purple bruise
 
Dirty room laundry basket
 
King of heroin
 
Boy bent in half.
 

 
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Meanwhile, deep in the subconscious 
 

 
I have begun to take
 
Selfies
 
In the grass
 
Where the grass is green
 
And the smoke is low
 
And my father’s face
 
Skips through a rice paddy
 
And the orange cloud
 
Is a citrus bomb
 
Underneath my Tangerine
 
Tree
 

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townielove
 
catonaleash
 
spottedgumsidewalk
 
littleplasticwetrose
 
pawnnporn
 
forrestgreenhondacivic
 
ashtraybangs
 
strangethingsareafoot
 
at the circle k
 

 
Falling From Your Minds
 
I know and im down…like i said.  Im just saying last night…”sassy” or “sarcastic” are not the words I would use to describe your response to me saying I had some ____records you should listen to. You just said you didn’t like it, in a kind of dismissive (and a bit aloof) way, which, out of most people, I might accept, but I cannot accept that someone like you “doesn’t like _____” unless said individual can demonstrate that they have actually tried it…cuz you obviously have good taste in things too, as made evident by, for example, your interest in my work…Just kidding.
 
But seriously I know you have good taste too we’ve had other good conversations on the subject…ie Cleo Laine/Schoenberg & that Joachim Kuhn track…that’s the only reason it pissed me off. I generally like that no one likes _______ as it helps to affirm my superiority to society by virtue of my appreciation of it. But I want my friends to be able to dig it too, otherwise I get lonesome in my isolated tower of weirdness and dissonance.
 
So, again, I will extend the invitation, if you want to hear something neat…I just got this totally fucking amazing record Noah Howard “Black Ark” which in my opinion kills it hard in the deconstructive tradition of Ayler, but with the world music influences of Cherry.
 
In other words, my new favorite.
 
If you are interested in that sort of thing, you can easily sample it on youtube. And if you wanna hear it on the original vinyl, just ask the next time you’re over.
 
And by the way, contrary to what you wrote in your last email, i’m sure that you are, in fact, an expert on some things. I read one of your music pieces once when we were first starting to hang out and it was about some classic rock stuff that I always I assume I know about but whatever you wrote was actually pretty well over my head. And im reading right now your piece on madame wong, and finding it quite interesting. So just know I respect you and your expertise on a wide range of subjects.
 

 
So Human an Animal
 
I followed you
 
Beyond the lake
 
I swam out to your boat
 
(I) took off her dress
 
Inside your pages
 
(I) clapped my hands
 
For you
 
I took on as my
 
Own.
 
You opened the gate,
 
Get hit.
 
HIM
 
We worshipped together
 
unashamed of our
 
religion.
 
Burn tile,
 
Slide backwards,
 
I’ll be your hole
 
On the side of the 1
 
Highway full of
 
Body parts,
 
You’re still a baby.
 
The new universe,
 
Has your face.
 
Lets touch everything.
 

 
Fetch A Pitcher
 
Cellulite
 
My body sags against its age
 
Avalon, I’ve flipped the tape
 
I stare,
 
Your follicle situation
 
So ripe, my wrinkles,
 
This entire bag
 
A rotten phone fuck
 
The universe throws a brick at
 
Us
 
My pain is just as
 
Fancy as your linen
 
Just as fancy as your skin
 
Your Bataille
 
Which speckled from sun,
 
Glows in photographs.
 
Apple bong of hope.
 
Spotify this repeat.
 
Jealousy
 
Maybe I think too much
 
But something’s
 
Maybe I shouldn’t
 
Wrong time
 
As much,
 
See you, it seems
 
Seeing anything as much
 
Turn sideways. Let me
 
Sometimes I sat
 
In those rooms,
 
Too.
 
You electrify me
 
Your desire.
 
I know underneath the blood
 
The fingerfuck
 
The ripe asshole
 
Withering to death inside
 
A reason to smile
 
My white thighs
 
Late in beddy by
 
I still own this
 
It’s important to me
 
that u acknowledge
 
I am a gorgeous fucking
 
Girl.
 
Woman, now, I guess.
 
This is the only place
 
I will admit that.
 
What, you think I didn’t
 
Think of you
 
I’d be there if I could
 
Once in awhile
 
I know what waits
 
inside the mirror
 
Hitchcock, before
 
I hit the lights
 
You want to eat my
 
Moon pie baby
 
I’m all, moist with possibility.
 
Seeing you,
 
Or seeing anything
 
As much as I do
 
You.
 
Why can’t we get it together? I mean, really? When does age and time connect in outer space, create this transcendental honesty of life? Let us celebrate our spirit let us lift up our Louisa May, believe in something. Goddamnit I don’t care what, just think of me and believe in it. Let my dark passage be your holy door. Let my lips do what junior high assigned reading does, make lips do, what hands to, pray.
 
Crawl across snake invested valleys. I will set it all on fire, turn it to a pile of ash to worship your dick for the rest of my life. Read a thousand French books at your feet
 
You gazed up at me. Pixilated ouch.
 
I saw the light.
 
It looked like sun through branches of the greenest afternoon tree, lying in a damp field, remembering a past without you. Bourne against the shore. Ceaselessly into the past. I beat on, I beat on, I beat on, I beat on. I beat. I beat. On. On. On. I’ll use your Christian name. I feel our life.
 


 

Warm

 
Your daddy
 
Your daddy,
 
Your daddy
 
Your daddy
 
Your daddy
 
Your daddy
 
Your daddy
 
Your daddy
 
Your daddy
 
Hurt You.
 

 
The Only Kind
 
Wait, do you not also have a mentally retarded adopted cousin who is more poignant and well-adjusted than the family that adopted her… like I do? Hrm. That would help in the ______ appreciation process.I love the Beatles now, for sure. I was taught to believe that there was a war coming and the ranks of its soldiers would be filled by Rolling Stones fans on one side and Beatles fans on the other.My dad’s a special kind of asshole, but it could be worse.
 
I will always love Sticky Fingers…for its supposed role in my conception.  The latter half of St. Dominic’s Preview is pants-poopingly good.  “Almost Independence Day” is probably the best guitar-based song over 10 minutes in human history. Maybe.
 
I do like me some Roxy Music. I also have very fond memories of staying on VH1 whenever they played “Come Undone” or “Ordinary World”. So there’s that.
 
I cannot promise self-puking. If I sang that song, it would probably be all like, “I can’t show you the world, but I can take you on a more ordinary carpet ride…maybe…where a carpet is attached to the back of a pick-up truck like a sled. To be honest, it’s more like a hillbilly carpet ride. Is that cool?”
 
Over + Out
 

Anais Nin scriblets

 

What remained was a slavery to a pattern –Anais Nin

 

 
CLOUD HEAD
 
Made of clouds
 
Everyone’s a Barbrara
 

 
Adult Contemporary
 
Reach out
 
through the misty
 
Your hand
 
I, wonder
 
To be
 
will feel
 
when,
 
our bodies
 
electric
 
make patterns
 
through the night.
 
I’ll stop the world
 
Neon heart
 
Crawl to,
 
ON
 
In the cold wet,
 
New York,
 
Miami,
 
Los Angeles
 
9 am, I’m
 
gonna crawl,
 
For you,
 
I slay.
 

Black Cat and the Diving Board.
 
Watching my cat chase a butterfly is the closest to heaven I can get.Black body lithe air.Sun, hell bent, on making everything
 
Beautiful.
 

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Troop Beverly Chillz

 
Flipping hair all bouncy curls auburn made thick and dry from chlorine it dawns on me that I’m your first real California girl. Los Angeles bat shit baby. Kid actor kabuki. Hari kari wet spot. I don’t need the costume I just id. Smug mug. Blow smoke, green cloud of this and that. Watch mah lids go slack, medicine cabinet Queen, toothpaste white strip on my heel. I don’t look away. I’m so pretty. California pretty. Loose, structured, anxious and neurotic. I am 100 years old. I remember what you are: Weeping willow dressed as a pastel. Soft dreams that roll like waves. To Live and Die in LA. You’ve been playing me. I’m the real jolly rancher.
 

 
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I want to eat your sadness like a cancer,
 
As they say in that song
 
By that man who shot himself
 
In a garden shed
 
Surrounded by money
 
And the expectations and congratulations
 
Of his loved ones
 
Crossing their fingers against his
 
Death.
 

perverse sensibilities

 

 
I slept under a bush next to a stream. Several days later arriving at the greyhound station in Eugene, I sat her in a pile on a bench while I loaded what little else I had with me onto the bus. The doors closed behind me and the bus lurched forward. Frantic, I pleaded with the bus driver to stop so I could get off. We drove on. I couldn’t get off the bus or do anything about it. She stayed out there waiting for me. – Grace Krilanovich, The Orange Eats Creeps
 

 

Smashing Zepetty

 
The world is a butterfly
 
Raised on promises
 
Sent to suck you dry.
 
I am an American girl.
 

 
 

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