Every Mark Equals Equals Death

Aaron Kovalchik

There were six of us/lovers, in a circle/yes: a circle. As if to say we had practiced this thing, done this before, we scratched at each other’s eyes, dripped fake blood. Mary sprayed us with liquid so we would appear as if sweaty from a great exercise of muscle, flesh. Breathing heavy, we feigned exhaustion, draped like dying birds. We are dying from this great poison. In the heartlands, forgotten, we live on our own. Jeanette says: “Our organs are not for sale so to speak.” Marty and Jim are lovers; I have a pussy. I sometimes consider the possibility of stealing their sex act; I think: if I freeze their lovemaking/fucking, make a mold and cast it, I could stick it in my pussy. I figure there’s power-power there, yeah.

We recognize the truth; the girl raised by dogs, for example; the truth of the world that shapes us, this dog-truth. In our day-to-day there is regularly a mechanized bird (perhaps a cyborg bird) that does photograph us. Yes, a bird-camera; a lens, the light enters, the film exposed, developed and out come little landscapes (Polaroids) containing our bare, deviant bodies, our beautiful bodies shaped by air, our delicious bodies ripe from eating ripe-ripe fruit, red fruit, delicious fruit. I stack up the Polaroids, I stack them up in a pile in my bedroom. Imagine this! I stack up these Polaroids and scheme how these landscapes instead of a collection of images could instead be sculpture, my sculpture. I could stack them so artfully as to create a creature, a creature such as myself with flesh (pale or dark).

First thought: how do we get electricity to run my art freezers?

Second thought: the skin of my flesh, the residual sensation from her, who used to scrub my skin, she lingers with me/she lingers with my skin.

Third thought: some of us (ok, ok!) don’t have the shared cock-deviation. Some, like me, have pussies, others have cocks.

Fourth thought: we know there is someone watching. They are photographing our wounded fleshiness, our wooden huts of labor and love with their vibrations; it is a watching made of sonar. These bat-men have power; they are the world that we fled from. They are the world. Like Guatemala, our powerlessness/difference threatens. Reading these words you threaten these bat-men. They saliva and spit all over themselves.

I hear the bell that means sex, group sex. We meet up, look around hungry; we like each other’s looks so much we start to cry and our sex organs swell up.


Guin is thrust into the hole, the weird hole.

A home emerges from this hole, it is in America, in the suburbs. A sense of non-life, there. She is blind, temporarily. The smell, the sense of the floor, the varnish of the floor. She is blind, casting about, unable to avoid this encounter (the odd smoothness of the floor).

She senses a thought, not her own; the thought of a man. She knows a name, Tolstoy. Tolstoy comes in with a revolver. Can you imagine a sexier revolver? I could make a picture of a man with a revolver, make you want that revolver. Make you want this picture-man, this lovely poster in black and white, with this special contrast, sexy man with gun. You get this picture? This imagination?

She hears a thought.

Tolstoy: This revolver, I used to wanna stick it in your cunt, now I don’t know how to feel pleasure.

Guin: I claw you, you feel nothing?

Tolstoy: I’ve had, you know, some many fucking things stuffed into me, I’m pure fucking puffed up skin. My brain has so many fucking pictures, girls doing things, I don’t — 

Guin: I’m blind, temporarily.

Tolstoy speaks with words. Guin is crawling on the floor/little blind. Feels like in a hole, not really dressed for this. The individuals she encounters in these holes are the effectors of power in this still-here world. EFFECTOR.

Guin thinks now: Here I am, suddenly, far away from my home, the dirtland, where I don’t have to answer to anyone and I experimentally fuck my queer lovers. Wasn’t really planning on going into this hole. Now I have a plug in my lovely little ass. I created this plug, I did make the mold of this lovely shape, so lovely enough to go in my body and stay there, the plastic drawn from trees, the fiery plastic enclosed around the prize: the combined plumage of a nearby free-roaming peacock. Now a beautiful peacock plume emerges from my lusty buttocks, and within my buttocks are the sensations known as pleasure.

Tolstoy: I spent some time at war, killed. I ripped out skin. I’m supposed to reveal law and order. I need to be stabbed with knife in order to come.

Guin: Aren’t there drugs for that?

Tolstoy: I am the fucking! (Pause) Do I know you?

Guin: Being here with you makes me feel as if I have returned to my pre-ejaculatory self, my adolescence. You remind me (me!) of a facial blemish, zit-man.

Tolstoy: I’m uncomfortable.

Guin: I came here against my will, through a weird hole. I want to look sexy to my lover, friends, potential lovers. Trouble is there are assholes with eyes, their noses turned up for a scent.

Tolstoy: I heard about these women, drugged. Can you tell me my involvement in this? My skeleton a frame, a super-frame of super ideas, the force of my ideas, look these ideas are the skeleton of society, the very dirt roads that lead up to the houses selling goods from overseas.

The blindness that has overtaken Guin lifts, her eyes fall on the wounded man. Guin/newfound sight. Her sight reveals nothing, really. Just as she thought: an ill-conceived home, a man. The revolver is tearing into his flesh, great red marks, he salivas and spits all over himself and the floor, crawling. She travels without memory of the journey itself. She returns to the hills, the mudland.