Anand Bose

Ad 2:
2002-08-11 15:32:54 (UTC)


Writing is the bliss of language—its Kamasutra”
Magi Roland Barthes

Am I Writing as Writing I? I am in a lip, a penile organ
flowing veins; I rise and fall as joy; the need to be me is
spontaneous and irresponsible as laughter trickling over my
veins sending a shivering, a shuddering a quivering. I feel
so many lips, so many curves, so many soft extensions, all
the pulp that’s on a being, a form of being body. I violate
all the spaces in the freedom of my travel, a voyage of
time, space, form and feeling; yet there’s hardly me in my
way of moving and the other is a bother as me or me. I feel
swollen and sad as a masculine construct as an organ which
thrusts; its my extension of my ambition, my drive, my
musk, my appropriation, my commerce, my label, my symptom,
my marriage, my position, my conquest, my insignia. I am
hardly human and made to be human; I am pilfering too, as
the other to make equal the sense of sexes. The sexy are
objects sexier with eye of sex as I am. I am so wounded and
listless seeing me as those and seeing me as myself, with
lips that suckle, caress, soak, cry and me as sense of
being warm as the human.
“Human all too Human” EcceHomo