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Anais on Suicide - It's Like Montparnasse All Over Again

About Anais on Suicide

Previous Entry Anais on Suicide Apr. 20th, 2004 @ 05:29 pm Next Entry

I didn't put up this piece because I thought most of you would have seen it on darkest_peru , but it's my suicide response, so I'll put it under the cut in case you have. I tried to write something entirely else about my one suicide attempt in the voice of my fifteen year old self, but I got bored, because fifteen is kind of a crappy mental age to be. So there is this, which is short, but I think there might be a nascent poem in there somewhere.


Paper my coffin with poems that look like the hands of beautiful women. Their pages should shroud me like Laertes, edges curled brown and sweet. When the dirge is sung, black and sere, if it is too much to ask that my mother claw her arms and tear her hair, at least cut my father's throat and shovel him in after me. Cover us in hyacinth and rosemary (for remembrance) so that the stench of our debauched passage through the valley of death will not stain the fungal cathedral-ceiling, our putrefying psalms wafting up into the soil like the smoke of a grey-bellied censer.

There must be a mass for the Freudian dead. A requiem for Electra and Oedipus with a swan chorus, braying out a moon-hymn, a menstrual canticle bubbling in the bone-chalice. Sew his eyes into her cheeks, sever her tongue and wash his feet with the foaming stump. What a chapel it would be, what walls and what splintered pews, whose altar birthed that surgery.

Scratch all that--bury me at sea, I cannot bear all this noise, all this earth piling its mother-memory onto my skull. Jocasta hung herself so that we could all forget her, shove her wrinkled breasts into a gold box and hang it up in St. Peter's. She did us a favor, cow-haunched and mute. Where can I go to escape her, to escape him, the gnashing parent-golems, offering the linen noose and the bathtub with grimy grins, teeth sliding in their heads, grunting their own nicotine-paean in 4/4 time?

Nevermind. Burn me. Beasts fear fire, it has always been so.

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From:orange_velcro
Date:April 20th, 2004 03:03 am (UTC)
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I would love to see this as a poem.

I had to smile at your comment, when you said you became bored.....I had seen it at darkest_peru and wondered about the tapering off of your voice. And yet even your half-hearted efforts still manage to produce jewels and treasures. My favourite line....


"A requiem for Electra and Oedipus with a swan chorus, braying out a moon-hymn, a menstrual canticle bubbling in the bone-chalice."

Once you got to "scratch all that" I started to lose interest, but I did like the final line of the piece.
Of course, I may have missed the point entirely. Poetry is not something I excel at.
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From:catvalente
Date:April 20th, 2004 03:18 am (UTC)
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No, it's not poetry yet.

And the fifteen year old thing is another piece entirely actually, and has nothing to do with this at all...
From:orange_velcro
Date:April 20th, 2004 03:23 am (UTC)
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My bad, I read your comment wrong(about being 15) .
But that being said...your tone in this piece does seem to show to me the voice becomes bored with thinking about her bruial...
so perhaps that is what you were trying to convey after all...
I knew it wasn't poetry yet but guess it has that flow as quite a lot of your work does. You always sound poetic....musical, like an oboe.And I hope to see it as a poem some day. this seemed to taper in emotion, it went from hunger to complacency....
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From:catvalente
Date:April 20th, 2004 03:24 am (UTC)
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Well, it's rough. Not in anything like a final form. But yes, partly, that's the point, boredom with the same old Freudian cycle...
From:orange_velcro
Date:April 20th, 2004 03:27 am (UTC)
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So it's supposed to taper...it was your comment on growing bored(which I now know was about the first attempt at something else, which os course I would have realised had I read eh comment correctly to beging with!) that I was unsure as to whether it was supposed to sound like that. It 'started' so urgent....
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From:shellefly
Date:April 20th, 2004 06:27 am (UTC)
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Paper my coffin with poems that look like the hands of beautiful women. Their pages should shroud me like Laertes, edges curled brown and sweet.

So the poems are written, crumpled up and then rewritten each day? The coffin remains unshrouded. This speaker is not really ready for death. I like it.
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From:mehinda
Date:April 20th, 2004 01:01 pm (UTC)
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I love this. I only have one small crits: the use of "Scratch all that" seems out of place with the rest of the piece. Its tone and voice is too common to sit among the other words.
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From:mehinda
Date:April 20th, 2004 01:01 pm (UTC)
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one small crit:*

I write good. :-P
From:thesibylqueen
Date:April 24th, 2004 02:59 pm (UTC)
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I actually like the 'Scratch all that' line--I think it gives the narrator more personality. I can visualize the speaker drinking and smoking with friends late, each discussing their dream death, their perfect wake...

As usual, there are absolute gems in this piece ('menstrual canticle', 'nicotine-paean in 4/4 time'), and I can easily see a poem being born from here. However, I really like the narrator, I wouldn't mind seeing her in a series of monologues, perhaps.
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From:caudelac
Date:April 27th, 2004 08:13 am (UTC)

Oscar Says:

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I actually am loving it prosaic. I love the cynic-side reflection, the eyes-in-cheeks, the amazing chapel, scratchings and favors. I can't quote all the things I love, there are too many. It's chewy and good, it feels excellent under the teeth, and few enough people-- like Sylvia and aye, wot?-- manage to murder their parents so damn beautifully, in such a good, satisfying way.
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