Ask Dr Toy

So long, I say in the dream

Every time being tied

In cross knots around his thigh

So long, and I am drug

With cruel, careful labor

Close to the gaping glass

Where some sunspots have stolen

Into the warm, glittery parlor

Now floating down his torso

Now You Know Phaedra And All Her Fury



The wood floor is hard, shiny,

Right for the body, or wrong

For the body, depending on the day,

The body, the action,

The right of the wrong--

This one is crooked, like when Alice…

There’s a bookshelf at the end, my feet

Looks like they will come falling

I am too frail for this, but I’m glad

I can touch it, unlike the keyboard

I press my mind at, like now, each letter a button,

Alien to itself because I still haven’t

Completely memorized to be a fast

I pause a little between each push, and, believe me,

Would rather have the pen, because what’s really happening

Is this complete

Grasping, my hand

All the way around, or, at least, such wanting



But this is the wood floor

I have chosen to lie on, as I have chosen

To deprive myself of the pen, maybe it’s

Laziness only, that makes me throw myself

To the floor, but I can feel it, and feel it

Defying my frame, it’s



Not you, nor anyone, against my back, it’s

Not this; it’s never been this, it’s not another name

For the flower’s neck,

For a pricked double-heart,

For the musick from it’s draped chamber,

Is not

Hence the perfidious advice not to forget the whip: femininity itself is already the effect of the whip -Adorno (MM §59)

I invent families on the tombstones and take them food

Nothing seems more like a whorehouse to me than a museum. In it you find the same equivocal aspect, the same frozen quality. Michel Leiris

Negating Your Negations Since 1999