Dan/Laurie

Nov. 6th, 2009 11:01 am
[identity profile] cynic2022.livejournal.com
Kinky
by Denise Duhamel

They decide to exchange heads.
Barbie squeezes the small opening under her chin
over Ken's bulging neck socket. His wide jaw line jostles
atop his girlfriend's body, loosely,
like one of those novelty dogs
destined to gaze from the back windows of cars.
The two dolls chase each other around the orange Country Camper
unsure what they'll do when they're within touching distance.
Ken wants to feel Barbie's toes between his lips,
take off one of her legs and force his whole arm inside her.
With only the vaguest suggestion of genitals,
all the alluring qualities they possess as fashion dolls,
up until now, have done neither of them much good.
But suddenly Barbie is excited looking at her own body
under the weight of Ken's face. He is part circus freak,
part thwarted hermaphrodite. And she is imagining
she is somebody else-- maybe somebody middle class and ordinary,
maybe another teenage model being caught in a scandal.

The night had begun with Barbie getting angry
at finding Ken's blow up doll, folded and stuffed
under the couch. He was defensive and ashamed, especially about
not having the breath to inflate her. But after a round
of pretend-tears, Barbie and Ken vowed to try
to make their relationship work. With their good memories
as sustaining as good food, they listened to late-night radio
talk shows, one featuring Doctor Ruth. When all else fails,
just hold each other, the small sex therapist crooned.
Barbie and Ken, on cue, groped in the dark,
their interchangeable skin glowing, the color of Band-Aids.
Then, they let themselves go-- Soon Barbie was begging Ken
to try on her spandex miniskirt. She showed him how
to pivot as though he was on a runway. Ken begged
to tie Barbie onto his yellow surfboard and spin her
on the kitchen table until she grew dizzy. Anything,
anything, they both said to the other's requests,
their mirrored desires bubbling from the most unlikely places.

(Thanks [livejournal.com profile] flyingrat42 for kicking my ass over here.)
[identity profile] whiskerslily.livejournal.com

 

 

 


 

The silhouette of a mountain. Above it
a dark halo of rain. Dusk’s light
fading, holding on. He thinks he’s seen
some visible trace of some absent thing.
Knows he won’t talk about it, can’t.
He arrives home to the small winter pleasures
of a clothing tree, a hatrack,
his heroine in a housedress saying hello.
He could be anyone aware of an almost,
not necessarily sad. He could be a brute
suddenly chastened by the physical world.
They talk about the storm in the mountains
destined for the valley, the béarnaise sauce
and the fine cut of beef it improves.
The commonplace and its contingencies,
his half-filled cup, the monstrous
domesticated by the six o’clock news—
these are his endurances,
in fact his privileges, if he has any sense.
Later while they make love, he thinks of
Mantle’s long home run in the ’57 Series.
He falls to sleep searching for a word.

-"Evanescence", by Stephen Dunn

 

This poem reminds me of Dan, post-Karnak. He and Laurie end up quite shell-shocked and broken, but they somehow manage to keep living anyway.

 
[identity profile] flyingrat42.livejournal.com


Laurie: Oh, it's sweet. Being alive is so damn sweet. (Watchmen XII: 22)




What the Living Do
- Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably
fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes
have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we
spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight
pours through

the open living room windows because the heat’s on too high in here, and
I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street,
the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying
along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my
wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called
that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to
pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss – we want more and more and
then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the
window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing
so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m
speechless:


I am living, I remember you.

[identity profile] whiskerslily.livejournal.com


"The Taxi"

When I go away from you
The world beats dead,
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.

Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you
To wound myself upon the sharp 
                                                  edges of the night?

-Amy Lowell (1874-1925)



This is a love poem about alienation, and the feeling of loss-- which reminds me of Laurie (and of Laurie/Jon). One thing about Laurie is that ... well, she is a loner. She has no real friends (besides Dan and Jon, who end up being her lovers, and I wouldn't count her mother as a friend per se). Once Jon leaves, Laurie has very few options. 

The poem has the speaker call out for the lover "against jutted stars", which just makes me think of Laurie realizing that Jon is far, far gone (both emotionally and physically -- he can't relate to her either way). And, since Laurie really has been shackled to Jon for years, she has to adjust to the world again.

PS... I have been a big fan of this community for awhile, and I'd love to help advertise it. The idea behind this communtiy is just genius, and I think lots of people would love this place if they knew about it... :D
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