This is a bildungsroman fossilized like seashell. Let’s go back to 1971
Seattle. This is a conduct story about setting aside the lyre. Birdbrained
trompe l’oeil. Slit-tailed sea cow, crowned. Taking up some new instrument.
Shall I tell you the secret of old marine books? The seductive mystery
of a fishy seaport pulls you in like a writhing net. Can symbols be sexed,
as in sex symbol? As in screen siren? As in a 16th century Norse woodcut
forcing some corporation to think deeply on the exciting seafaring history
of coffee? Anything can be mined for material. Starbuck from Nantucket
was a realist, though he wouldn’t have minded a little navel. Which was
axed, after my breasts. I was once quite Rubenesque. This is about the splitting
of bodies rearranged. About a third space, a place of a community and a place
of solitude. You are special, deserving of leisure. Pay attention, a lot is riding
on how well you understand this. A lot of brainwork went into this reframing.
Boardrooms of white male execs, word guys above the poverty line: not so much
tail, rewrite, no nipple, friendlier face, colour change, praise, praise, praise.
Luring me into the think tank.
HOW TO SALT A FISH
Lurid rush of protein, perspiration.
Salt cured skin is a staple diet for
the buttery mouths of men in Southeast
Asia, the pink gums and thoroughly picked
teeth of coastal Russia, and the Arctic.
A vast number of techniques can be used:
smoking, drying, dehydration, hanging,
freeze-drying. Don’t be put off by wailing.
Flesh flaky and fresh and white. Or perhaps
you’re craving for the rose-orange body
heavy with spawning. Something is triggered
by the sucking wetted oyster of a
mouth that cuts itself wider to consume.
The brine goes stiff with waiting.