THE HISTORY OF SEXUALITY

by ELLIE BLACK

In the beginning there was the pornography of the morbid.
In the beginning there was the technology of the flesh.

In the beginning I knew what to call myself,
a capacity taken from me by language.

In Babylon everyone thought they knew what was up
but now they all seem pretty stupid don’t they.

Once the body was built from nothing.
Once the body was built out of falsehoods.

In the beginning I removed my arm
to make room in my body for desire

but eventually it grew back
so I left it there.

In the beginning everyone watched me
tie myself off at the stump

and that was called fetishism
and actually it was pretty bad.

Once pervert actually meant something.
Once meant something actually meant something.

In the beginning I knew what it meant,
a capacity taken from me by language.

THE LYRIC

by ELLIE BLACK

It is or isn’t raining. There
are flowers or there aren’t.

It happened or it didn’t
in the archive of my heart.

I listen to the sound
created by the absence, all

the empty space
where poetry is

supposed to happen.
I imagine filling it

with myself. I imagine
the self that I am,

and that I can describe
that self to you, here, now,

that when I say “I,”
you understand

what to look for
or not to look at all. To insist

on one’s own existence
is an act of desperation,

but so is acting
like no one could reach you,

like there’s nothing to reach.
I save up all my epiphanies;

I give myself over to the signifier,
signified be damned.

I let the stand-in
stand in for me.

You find me not
so easy to pin down.

by ELLIE BLACK

I till the land of myself. I land myself
the role of me. I stand in the way

of myself. I weigh myself. By
way of myself, I sand myself

down. I drown myself
and watch myself drown. I roll

myself up a hill. I frown
and erase myself, redraw myself,

revise myself. I revive myself
and start again from the beginning.

I perform myself. I mourn myself.
I spite and spurn and scorn myself.

I ride the carousel of myself
and can’t get off. I only care

about myself. I doubt myself
but cart myself around. I cant,

recant myself. I chant myself,
change, rearrange myself,

I estrange myself. I leave
myself. I don’t believe in

myself—I’m self-agnostic. I
accost myself; I cost myself.

I prognosticate: I off
myself. Reader, to you,

I sell myself. I self myself
with a hammer

until you get it.

author pic here

Ellie Black is