In 2011, I'd like to fuck.

I don’t know about you, but me, I do. Although, in my case, it’s complicated, as they say on facebook. And I'm not only talking grammar here, my love.

My neuron-amooor. It’s physical for sure. Corpo-real. Carpe-relational. Corpee-gestural.

It’s complicated.

I would nevertheless like more muscles stories - painted, thought, sung - and lived to the extreme.

Just lived would do actually.  And music, lots of music, my love. Images. Ideas. Ooh.

Approaching things with two hands - like hips. Hips. And words. Big and small ones. All sorts of breathing.

To which of course a certain knowledge of history’s horrors would be added. Well, yes. Like hips. Things from the past. They'll tell you about it, sir, it’s good to fuck at 40. It’s even better...

Do you remember, it was a time for conquests and black children were massacred by priests’ bludgeons -as God’s men couldn’t carry swords. I don’t like God stories. I don’t like them -at all- actually. Now you know.

In bed, you can say God… oh God, but not really Dieu… oh Dieu. In French you have to add my between Oh and Dieu- and say oh, mon Dieu. Without this possessive adjective, it won't work.  And it’s not even a parable.

I fuck without God, my love because God doesn’t get it. It’s like the housewife under 50: marketing research has shown that she doesn’t like subtitled films, she doesn’t get it.

It’s slightly rambling, I agree. Unstitched. And I will come even more and more undone this year.

So, these cute African babies, if they didn’t convert to the gospel - hearing it in a foreign language - they’d get a big blow on their heads. I’m not quite sure why this ended up in my text. But it’s there… Everything is fucking with everything. It’s like the will. Fucking in everything.

I'l a calibrated calamari, an Ingresque odalisque. My mother, she doesn’t dare pronounce the s of sex. She speaks about hexual relationships, but only if it’s really necessary. And me, I don’t really like to say baiser. May I say ena-corpo-moured instead?

Bludgeons blows. I will never forget.

I’m so ena-corpo-moured by you and with you. Knowing that. Knowing everything.

I’m so ena-corpo-moured in you and with Bas Jan Ader’s sadness and his death at sea.

I’m ena-corpo-moured, you and me... Magritte kicking a collector's ass, just like that, because he left like doing it. Just couldn’t refrain from doing it.

I’m ena-corpo-moured hard in Sarah Lucas’ tights. Yes, push madam, it’s a boy.

I’m ena-corpo-moured, mislaid by open and deceptive surfaces with the genital textures of Cecily Brown’s paintings. Even if you’re black, I mean brown. It must be my pink then. My poor nuances.

I could tell you everything, my love. Continents, language structures, friendships, panicking frights, sweetness, Africa, bereavement and art. Transversal  - Trans-vestal.

I’ll tell you about failed suicides and successful ones.

I have the manners of an old African walking the streets of Paris, a tired immigrant who has build roads for everybody, but doesn’t quite know where he is anymore, with his worker's pension, his callous hands and his i instead of e. Do you see the kind of slowness I mean?

Sometimes it's also a bit violent, as if to get out of the world’s horror. Oh, my man’s scrotam, my darling’s testees, hum, even in front of my computeenoo.

But hey, boy, you look good. No, that’s true. There, right there. Penis, penis penis penis penis penis and all the rest of it. Soft as the skin of the eyes. Holding on to each other, we look so straight we could loose sight. Grimaces from a comic, savage and primitive opera. The civilisations’ ecstasy, it’s real cool.

You penetrate me like a world. It’s a shame that it sound so pornographic. You apprehend and comprehend me. Too poetical. You commit me. Too medical.

You intradict me. You amaze me. You irradiate me. You panic and pang me. You pantomine me and pander to me.

Palmy allmistry, you palpitate, I pedal, you poodle.

You palpate me. Whatever, english is the the majorit'y language... His master'sz voice.

- Can’t you just shut up?

- « Phalicoum humorous est. », brother.

In other words « This guy articulates me, real crazy »

(Glossolalias.)

You're wearing me, like a glove.

Pointed phallic finger.

-Accusation?

-No.

I am the world my love. My organs, the world. How can you not be in this case? Penetrazionee. From behind I never quite got the feeling of being the world.

And what’s more I like elbows. For thinking - and for their internal folding.... and I was gonna say in piping - but that could be misinterpreted.

There’s a vulgarity in tubing but there’s also a nobility. There's both.

My loov, don’t buy me diamonds, I hate them.

I do have a political conscience even if I don’t have a soul. What I’d like is a reduced head.

Yeah.

(…)