"in your last minute"
Is this our expense - a dusk falling on the whiteness of the bodies,
rigid and still alive? - "Cut the bullshit, Sade."
said the magistrate.
I
had no time to think what to
say next.
They summed me up. That's all.
Me. Who would worship every bit of your skin, who would
adore every
enchanting inch of your
weeping soul.
"You are cruel, you don't care. You are unfair."
this is what was said.
Yet, see me there, making a step forward,
bending my head over your simulacrum.
These were the spiked roses around your grave.
And will be yours.
Why are you back in town?
Face of that pallor, like an enbittered crowd.
"Afraid. He is not on my list."
said the headsman, at dawn.
Two hours later, brought on a pedestal, there you stand,
in your last minute,
with the collar of your white shirt cut off
and your shaved throat
already exposed.
Erminia (Passannanti)
> * * *
>
> So what is it, besides being
> pre-empted, that you find yourself
> unable to abide?
> Pre-emptively
> co-opted, to be precise: concocted
> or constructed from such stuff
> as snuff movies are made of -
> I mean suffering and death, which
> are real even if the rumoured
> entertainment is a risible simulacrum,
> translated into the expedient razzle
> of pleasure sought and taken.
> Real *enough*. Not to rejoice
> in nominal resistance, although
> it's true there are curtailments I'd pay
> to see enacted: still, the sore
> point is the amusement said to be
> afforded, even there. Yes,
> *puritannical*: if you must. There seems
> little point in protesting the death-
> agonies of man or beast while there remain
> those who will laud the "savage spectacle"
> as supremely-affecting *jouissance*...
>
>
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