the muse apprentice guild
--expanding the canon into the 21st century




SIX WORKS
BY TAMARA LUQUE BLACK

THE KINEMATICS

i like being killed by you
the exact opposite of fast and satisfying

there is forward looking and backward looking, but there is urgent and substantial need to see presently.
"URGENCY" splits seconds bold and black in caps on grayish-white.
the absence spectrum, in remarkable full
a psychological test: the best aesthetic.

what other words appeared on consciousness? flickered on cue (randomly) and then vanished (purposively).
the origin of urgency was unknown.
but urgency was discussed briefly and then realized (in remarkable full).

urgency.
soft. violent. nostalgic. sweaty. familiar. pale. reflected. cathartic. reassuring. unexpected. imperfect. the exact opposite of regrettable.

consumed and consuming.
good is best when we are the actors.
it is nice to meet you (again).

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sink into something that compels even before you understand why. along the way, (never/always) get distracted.

cut me into a network of useless comprehension and invite me to understand you (with/without) language insofar as that is possible.

pick off the scab, rub in the salt, and watch the clear liquid gather at the interface of the skin and the air. good circulation speeds the healing process. sex and first aid collapse into a single, queasy description, which brings a smile up from behind (your/my) eyes.

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Twenty-six minutes late. And still, there to meet her – an exercise of considerate patience from the start. (She’s appreciative.) An absent-minded tour of seventy-five percent of the intersection of Sunset & Cahuenga demonstrates that this intersection is just one of many beautiful intersections. You should have taken some pictures or something. Documentation is (everything/nothing). For example, your eyes have been assigned a three-way cross-reference, catalogued as (1) clear, (2) dark, (3) bottomless.

Clear and dark and bottomless:
She falls in.
She falls incapacitated by the presence of absence and the tension of not-touching.

She was a cat for a while, a black cat, with darling little black cat ears and all.
(She’s not these days.)
She has at least five names, to designate her several selves.
Don’t jump that gun, (deep breath) …you have several selves too. And if you didn’t you’d feel maladapted and disconnected.
She writes make-out music.
She makes stochastic choices because her wants are variable(s).

You have beautiful hands and wrists.

She wants to work you up. (This is embarrassingly clear.)
She is hyper (-linked?)

Pulled and pushed and scratched and tested. Apparently, today, sex smells like orange, smells like tea, smells like product. Clue-trained neo-lutherans stay up late practicing multiple demographies, rehearsing the ninety-five ways ideas are referents.

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Torn out of context, she looks like a pin-up. Invent her environment as you would most like it. Pinned back into context, she openly fights it but secretly buys it, and really, it kills her.

Air tight. Fail safe. Fool proof.
Watch it like you’re numb.

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Despite his mid-western sensibilities, this someone sings recklessly. Sings with his whole body, words that are dark red and slippery and shiny, that make me want to take up chain-smoking.

I am east coasting towards an undeserved nap.
I am thinking about the way my name would sound coming out of his mouth.

Vargas girls, Fenders, lip balm, bath towels, American typewriters.
Hollywood isn’t high school.

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terrifically, jealously
‘accounts never balance, one never pays enough, etc. etc.’
he wrote her poem name over her pencil face,
and they put it in a glass box angled with mirrors
for awkward, happy voyeurs.
the beautiful compulsion. (compulsory.)
she is talented and, more essentially, beautiful. (compulsively.)
my muse, his muse (and his)
her father took the photos.
now we’re getting somewhere;
now we’re getting uncomfortable.
but still, he measures smiles per minute
without fighting the war of attrition.
a portrait of space, a military identity card
she takes careful aim,
but still, he says, ‘you can’t know my eyes.’