Stephanie Elizabeth Creaghan

Oh! Impossible Love


ISSUE 68 | ECSTASY OR ATTENTION | SEP 2016

 

 


 

Oh! Impossible Love. A Prose Poem.

[Films]
L’amour braque - A. Zulawski (1985)
Pola X - Léos Carax (1999)
Nostalghia - A. Tarkovsky (1983)

 


 


 


 

It always begins with a robbery, in the second sense of the word. With heady hands I wrench from thee that which is not mine. In this case the pantomime of love idealized, in this case currency, in this case the ability to communicate. The ensuing rush of—oh; a penchant for the impossible, actualized; a claim on the domain of the forbidden.

What follows is similar mostly; chaos beyond the realm of comprehension, heartache, violence, gore and violence and the tearing of limbs and earlobes and vocal chords, Erinyes-like peals into the wombless night, for nothing can prepare the human constitution for such intensity, such insatiable pleasure, such longing. A high surge of one form of energy will inevitably entail the resurgence of its opposite. Albedo.

 


 


 


 

In the midst of this upheaval, this soulèvement—a harmless lift of complacency’s plump skirts that unwittingly catalyzes an unfurling of horrors—the mind is quiet. Life is pared down to the strictly physical and operates according to serotonin dips and spikes. Because thoughts have flatlined and actions are carried out endlessly, existence could be compared to barreling blindly towards—nothing, on a treadmill. In consequence, there is a wearing down of the emotional core like the wearing out of cartilage, churning and churning and churning with no rest, just the same mindless turn of the wrist. To pause would mean to derail. The inevitable, then, is to continue, to continue until the infernal machine has digested all living tissue worthy of producing energy; le déferlement.

 


 


 

 

The floodgates have dissolved like sugar through the sheer force of everything, and now all that once spoke, once moved, once fucked, lies inert;
pleural effusion;
resources exhausted from pumping out the lifeblood necessary to feed a tumescent love.

The deep void ripped open at the slaughter of what seemed to feed but mostly took radiates malevolently and begs to be filled. And so it is; with religion, with the penitentiary, with the most beautiful tracking shot you have ever seen. For you, God is a sex worker walking the streets, the keeper of something so surreal, so impossible, that you must relinquish your life to fixate your desperate teeth on her gilded and uninterested teat. But once you have paid and drained her so completely, destroyed that which you claimed to have loved so dearly, you will only find dissatisfaction and loss, for you know only deification/objectification. Kneel down and pray.

REGARDE ! Mes guenilles... EMBRASSE-LES !

 

 

The Hypocrite Reader is free, but we publish some of the most fascinating writing on the internet. Our editors are volunteers and, until recently, so were our writers. During the 2020 coronavirus pandemic, we decided we needed to find a way to pay contributors for their work.

Help us pay writers (and our server bills) so we can keep this stuff coming. At that link, you can become a recurring backer on Patreon, where we offer thrilling rewards to our supporters. If you can't swing a monthly donation, you can also make a 1-time donation through our Ko-fi; even a few dollars helps!

The Hypocrite Reader operates without any kind of institutional support, and for the foreseeable future we plan to keep it that way. Your contributions are the only way we are able to keep doing what we do!

And if you'd like to read more of our useful, unexpected content—leave your email below to hear from us when we publish.