self-annihilation [theory]

— Muriel Leung

Often I’ll think back on it with some shame, the age of him and what I coveted, which was to be fully human and immeasurable in regards to my gifts and talents as a young student. My youth was a type of chariot that yanked the sun around with some duty of importance I’m always forgetting. Thus is the life of the institution. For love of [theory], I read for what the world concealed and found myself in it. If there was any skill I acquired, it would be that—to locate the body even when told it does not exist.

In that way, I was boundless. Then I awoke. A nearness to excellence could make the blood feel clean. Rattle the husk of me until my worthiness felt itself begin a low-lit glow. In truth, nothing did happen, but then what words can I assign this hole, to point the way there, where no theory would ever feel sufficient? To be plucked out of the many, to sing that song of highest belief, I stuffed my body’s hole with stones. Out of devotion, I can wage such war against myself.










If theory is meant to alleviate a certain pressure
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to elucidate a question hanging like a worry-tooth



                                  loosen at the mouth

                                                                                                /                 /



                                                                      fray the text

                                                              its patterns     /
                                                                                        its years



                                                                                                history of discursive pleasure

                                                                                                                                                        /

                                                                                                                                          / un-pleasure

                                                                                                          to a politics of:

                                                                                                                              how to live



in a flummoxed time

the [bone] inscrutable



                                  /

                                                                                                    “scarred trace” of the bearing body



                    /                     always

                                    the season of textual mourning



                                                                                                    was / already dead /

                                                                                                    when spoken / of /


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