1. Trauma: open wound: torn flesh:
something in me not me: It.
No
name names thee. It. It blows up. It happens. It encompasses all there is. The
time-space and all cursive realities stop and become heavier. It is full of it.
Violence of not-me—on, against, through, me. Flesh surrenders and opens up. It
bleeds, without flowing. It is stuck: there is a blockade in the threshold:
liminal hotspot. I am the closure where it repeats itself, reinforcing its law
of intensity, its empire of intensity in myself—on me, against me, through me.
2. Trauma: open wound: torn flesh:
something in me not me: It.
This
suffering is without Origin, sheer power of anarchy. The organizing force of my
aboriginal place and aboriginal cycles vanishes; other gravity, unknown to me,
operates. On, against, through me. It makes unreason, non-sense: the voice and
the body implode, ground down. They plunge into muteness and paralysis. Or else
they explode like unbounded, raw, high-pitch, vowels, too far away from
language, sheer yelling, without Origin. Both muteness and yelling signify my dismembrance and my bodily self-deixis without signs. For articulacy requires the
most impossible labor, a body capable of being held and gathered.
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