Don Quixote, Which Was a Dream by Kathy Acker Read Free Book Online

artist, you're frothing, you're trying to eradicate every weakness mainly those in other people cause that's what you see so you demand certain behaviors and accept nothing else; when people act differently, cause you've buried your wildnesses more anger volcanoes out of you than I've ever felt from another human being? I like you cause your eyes look at me a certain way and cause your nose twitches; your mental capacities're at least as sharp and rapid as mine; when you're not being (ridiculously) ruled, you're as decadent as I am. Why do you give a damn about social rules? Why not become an artist? I'm going to fuck lots of men now if they'll
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    fuck me cause I need that physical reassurance and I'm sure while I'm doing this, there'll still be thoughts of our fucking:
    Between you and me was a madness which's rare. Not just sexuality. Who're you kidding? That this anger and fear (appearing cause I touched your madness too closely or cause you care about society) are more powerful than your sexuality? Only a man who adores fucking comes near me. What's love? Love's the unity of friendship and desire. I messed up with you. I didn't care enough about friendship. I fought too hard against your desire to be socialized which, if I love you, should be as important to me as my ways. Can you be patient - I'm willing to fight myself to be with you?
    You don't think our friendship's important. Maybe you're so young, you believe there're an infinite number of mad relations.
    I agree with you: I was too frightened you didn't love me and not terrified enough of imposing on your love. Please remember, you also feared I didn't love you and you begged me for reassurance.
    I hope your wife'U make you happy forever. I'm saying this cause I want to be friends. I want my desire for friendship to waken your love for me -
    Walking the streets.
    Tatlin designed a city. Tatlin took unhandlable passion and molded it.
    It all comes out of passion. Our city of passion.
    Biely wanted to fuck his closest comrade, Alexander Blok,'s wife until the duel between them in 1906 (which never happened), then Biely left Russia for a year. When Biely described this passion, he constructed language as if it was a building. If architecture wasn't cool cold, people couldn't live in it. I have to figure out why I'm hurting so much. Recognition: I'm really hurting. One of this hurt's preconditions is I'm in love with you.
    A city in which we can live.
    What're the materials of this city?
    Is sensuality less valuable than rational thought? Is there a split between mind and body, or rather between these two
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    types of mentality? Why's a Cubist painting, if it is, better art than a Vivienne Westwood dress? Is our city abstract?
    When you talk to me on the phone I'm hurt and maddened by your lack of sexual and emotional communication. Art criticism, unlike art,'s abstract.
    I'll mold my love for you: I can't say over the telephone what I want to say to you: 'Please touch your cock because I can't touch your cock now and I have to touch your cock.' What's mainly not allowed? Time's the main non-allower. I can't touch your cock right now because one event can't be another event. (Time is substance.) Three thousand miles now between the events of you and me, or three hours. Absence to a child is death. This is death. Time's killing me. Time's proving you don't love me. I have to mold my passion for you out of time:
    2. The Poems Of A City
    On Time
    The subjunctive mood takes precedence over the straightforward active. The past controls the present.
    desinas ineptire et quod vides périsse perditum ducas.
    The past.
    fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles,
    cum it hurts me to remember I did act up today, a way of saying 'I'm not perfect,' forgive my phone call, ventitabas quo puella ducebat (on a leash: leather Rome)
    The first future tense. What do words really say: does this future propose future time?
    amata nobis quantum amabitur nulla.
    ibi ilia multa kisses on