Sunday, 12 April 2015

Trans Manifesto - Revisited.

Those thoughts were some time ago, material thoughts. Ligatures for living. Assessments like correct protocol & terminology. Glyphs. A false cartography. Now we find ourselves standing at the edge of a horizon, staring over it & back & that horizon is thus: On the left is a sheer drop back, formal. To render oneself as one was: Pick a point in your existence in which you most perfectly enacted the prescribed order of symbols, events, behaviours & motions. Now you can see it stand in it & make it a constant stasis to the exclusion of everything. Exclude pain. Remove pain. Like contemporary sculptures in Vauxhall. The place of agony is abstract, not the person, not the people, not the motion but inside the body where all wrongness is; a tissue. The second option is to plummet over that edge, imagine it, imagine the surging air. To a point that (it is told to you) is not mapped or permanent, that is fluid, that is fixed. A place called a new body which is separate which is a transplant whereby like jerky you are cured. Vacuumed. Now it is summarised (material truth) that you will stay on the edge. That it is not good to do either thing.
The reactionary diagnostic process by which trans* people are measured in society at large still does my fucking nut. What it does to that nut is it makes me say 'there was once a point in history where a very reluctant & shame faced doctor, probably a man who drank a lot of cheap scotch from small bottles, probably British, probably in his mid fifties, came to the conclusion when comprehending the degrading corpse of a queer that this queer had somehow wrongly inhabited its entire universe. That it would have been much better off in one of the neater parallels, & that if only, this doctor thought, it had the nous to ask a doctor, like himself (doctor, lawyer, local councillor, auditor etc. etc.) ((& it should be noted this doctor was in fact not a doctor at all but a cheque book ruthlessly attended to in private by a handful of auditors responsible for no precarious labourers)) to cut a long strip from the top of the queers head to the sole of its feet & gently, with forceps, drag its anima sideways through the slit into the air (((for a second here the body is abandoned. Paradise is here, in the abandonment of the body, but not for long because the spirim once removed from the body is carried))) towards another waiting body with a gaping side & slipped in. The movement from abandonment to habitation takes five years.
Paradise is a piece of shit.
Cut in the side of the body head to foot.
Skeletal split; sew socket. So wrought
vile cusp,, ideals to body split
                                                 paranormal. Waist

Ice bath
splint socket
I-not bodied
scrap hatch. Fucked completely
amonia does to eyes
what I-does to
                        body hex
            r-evan--ent. Genetic impartial
hatch from. Get right


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