from monday: "second reader"

desire
i write
comes from where?
a nihilist types:
1. not a good question. its like asking where light comes. the point is that there IS desire. it has something to do with the body but cannot be reduced to it.

oh ho ho!
don't i know
my body is willing but the mind says
know i know i
know i've phrased it badly,
i meant to say
what makes desire
possible?
no, i know! i wake up and the words are on my lips and the feeling is only just fading.
"no, can't have pleasure, it's not for me."
not i
know pleasure i know pleasure but
no pleasure lets me know pleasure
because i know
what makes desire possible:
"the impossibility and possibility of a relation to the other."

desire is pleasure, is trust, is faith, is hope,
where they flow together i fish.
a wet underworld, slippery, dark and constant
constantly shifting.
you're biting,
but when
i reach in
the water
you're gone.
changed.
slippery fish!
the self is fleeting and we
write not to die,
must kill you with language,
pin you down, mount you
- wait, wait, wait, i've got it all wrong! -

kill me with language
pin me down, mount me
on your wall
stare
alter as need be until
i am perfect
visions, revisions

i'm looking at you
(my desire)
but i want you
(is about)
to be looking at
(the other)
me
(not me)

this pleasure can't exist with me
this pleasure erases me
it's a small death,
a little death,
very little, almost nothing

desire
i am always and only me
in response to you
desire
you are always and only you
in response to me
desire
and yet,
desire
and yet!

pleasure is not you
nor me
it is the border
we share, it is the language
we speak, the same language
we both speak,
with different tongues.

do you see?
help me see.

speak me, say me, pin me
down with language.
kill me, make me die. i
hate that
only you can
make me
me
it can't be
me
it can't be
true.

is this pleasure?