Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Issue 24, December 2012—Trans / Queer Issue)

Ana Božičević
lives of the She-Philosophers: an infomercial

THE Lord of Amshire high-fived the

Lord of Butamhereshire (as

the seminal carriage lengthened into dusk &

a field of red Likes swayed in the m-wind—

 SAID: I met me a Philosopher. She

 was not stout of form, and she was mild,

 bc she slept on a precipice—

 Satanist  Satanist

 Satanist  Satanist


BUT said Butam you PROMISED

always we’d be there for each other

on the step of step, the view

of view, PLEASE!,

 get your digits from out

 the cunt of my brain and your words from my cunt. I’m

 talking here…I’ve met a Philosopher.

 “Let not one word be key to you,” she said & led

 us ‘cross the brows of Seine to a place of liver.

 The ferry goes & docks in the.

 Dappled grove, and the

 holy cock and holy cow mosey on out,

 white-bearded with sparks—with what

 freedom I ran up those trains

 and towers, against the flow of her standard: “Je

 préfère l’Autre!”…is that the time?

 What the? Her name was Hypatia.

 ALL this

 happen’d online. I’d scroll around

 the block of text till I reached her


because that’s

where the little curtain was


 then I’d touch and enter through into the name. O

pied signified! The stars so bright in here!

Blubberers bring blueberries. Pass

me the hot sauce! —And the crazy open spirit from the mouth

 of the prairie floor said—

 If classic is modern

 If classic is modern

 If classic is modern—good Lord. Then what?

(message from our co-sponsors:)


What this place needs more of is

Triangles: one says

To your friend, “She’s the one one really wants

To fuck, but I’ll accept you

As a proxy.” You labeled a profile of you:

“Looking at the wrong shit.” Still, sometimes, P

 I see Liberty

 It has the shape of

 Italy but I know the only Thing to fill this long-

 Ing must be Culture...O I’m so ready for Death & if

one could hang oneself off of a hole in the cloud

one so would.

But-am is gone for good. So quiet

in the peanut cart tonight.

Dea of rare flesh,

Sink into your constellations. Too,

fuck your fat tin ring: O horror & beautee

of a marréd woman, gimme your marooned macaroons Your

new-age nuages—we

may float deeply towards the c on your

bateau bataille—

meadow in Montauk,

 whole piazzafuls of obscure   I even

prayed to Venus for you

& other operae in the sky &

would borrow any cash or text

to dress you in the freedoms you require &

of barricades I'd

make you readymades