Why was doing drugs in semi-public toilets ever liberating? I guess “Me, me, me…” is not what holds the interest of, well, me-these-days. So, reading Max Wallis, “Thinking of how many elevators”, the Verve Poem of the Month for July 2025, a shameless/shame theme reminds me of Alex Dimitrov’s, Extasy, Jonathan Cape, London, 2025. A similar liminal libidinality underlies David Lynch’s Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks. Extreme liminality is part of the rush, but how far up is it from “smoking in the boys room?” Where can I/we go from here? Where is the death-defying, heart-swelling engorgement, clenched-everything-because-it-just-feels-so-good gone now? In that just-feels-so-good there is me wrung-out like a face printed on a facecloth. Me not-writing writing about not writing about the explicit writing about writing about the sex parts/acts and actors. I leap a many-stepped remove with each stroke. You don’t need my permission, except with me.
rWorld2 