write this
emmer effer
a pretend genius broadsuction
some days are better than none
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rose selavy

"there is a causal arousal between your twinge and the tall ships that boing water. like dummies they'll sproing later. and in a drama, make that loiter, they'll poing after."   

This is what they describe to you while the Martinique revolution plucks the roots of her lightly moistened wheat fields. There is a pause and then it continues.

She harbors a sleight predilection for plaster. Three times the weight of heavy. Horn made of Punjabi silk. Enough a) to make one festoon. And rightly so. For the compromise dissembles her bungalow. Soft width pillows and shams, designed for maximum comfort. Maria, how little the time ticks when dressed in stripes and plastic blaster spoons.

They say trees grow in her sitting room.

She warns me that (uh) here come the stupid words again. And they're all (all) around again. And I read (read) them again. And nothing (nada) new again. Same old partitions and eyeglass suck. And she's right as a bauble in that come with me (so I follow her) way.

Through the phonoplane to the pigeon house where they give words to everything. Even silence and nothing and bob who is nameless. Oh yes, mathilda, the boo-hoo makes her sad. But I pop wheelies and hammer her nipples into a smooth child-like fluffy.


She sips tea beneath palm leaves, making pronouncements as bare as winter while mangos sweat in the bowl beside her. Lately I’ve been meaning to tell her something along the lines of a parable. But after a deflection of her existence [inject stream 2, terraprawn inhibitor], and in spite of distractions, it seems she’ll never let me go. And I should love her as one might love a mother but the Roman in me finds fault in even love.

Oh unbridled mare of Tunisia, Sierra Leone and Monjolia, etc., etc..

She laments that nothing ever happened to her that was big enough to connect the world {the whole Nicaragua bullshit and fucked up alcoholic and tangerines like pornographic bible verse.}.

To say to someone: this is what happened to me under the awning while planes fired overhead.

To say to someone: they once made jam that looked like candle wax and sent it by boat to barely remembered outposts and that one time (one time dear Cletus) I jarred a note that read: come back for me.

"These things happen to prevent one from floating away and I have no stories to tell."

All of her responses, impersonations--she loves hemoglobin for what it’s worth. A pressing sensation of Thrasymachus the conniver, the iron made collapser, encircling her residue, cubing her--not what you’re thinking--porpoise flail.

Tell your stories first and then live them, you stupid girl.

But she’s no stupid girl when she leads you by the hand and plunges you pinky first into her hammurabi wigwam. Jesus christ, she’s got pudding down there.

But you’re never alone. Cause it’s never allowed. Even sitting beneath the palm trees that grow through her roof like leafy plugwig and scrubby and her head in your lap as the warm, night breeze calms her to sleep, you hear the crowd dumble: huh? what? chromosome?. Yes, chromosome you philistines. Chromosome. A drone in the pontiff’s ear. A stream of blood like a locust swarm. I can’t believe her sleep but I’ll caress her hair and wait for her awakening.

About the author

Born in Philadelphia in 1975 to conceptual artist Marcella Desnos and writer Robert Deschamps, Rose Selavy first made a name for herself as a young experimental filmmaker in the late 1990s.  A prominent member of Pittsburgh's Anemic Cinema Collective, some of her early works include the short film "Of Lips Blue," and the pseudo-documentary, A History of the Sneeze.  In 2001, Selavy moved to Vancouver, British Columbia where she briefly turned to writing erotic fiction; her first work, "A Toast to Life," was published by the now defunct Canadian journal Imaginary Science.  She began collaborating with the editor of Imaginary Science, the Canadian Jarryite and poet Kristen Book; their book of OuLiPo inspired poetry, Wormwood Moth Wound was shortlisted for the prestigious International Herald International Self Publication Contest in 2004.  In 2007, Selavy moved to Los Angeles, California to pursue a career in acting.  She can be spotted frequently at David Wilson's Museum of Jurassic Technology and has appeared in the independent films of Raymond Erickson. 

A regular Write This contributor under various monikers, Selavy's recent works explore the realm of the literary assemblage: the art of composing short stories and poems from the fragments of other works, whether they be newspaper or magazine articles or works of fiction.  She will also be appearing in Caleb Stirling's documentary about silent film actress Lillian Grey, due out sometime in 2010.  This piece, "chromosome," created specifically for writethis.com, is built from various fragments of past, present, and future Write This publications.