The Perfume Recordist (Lisa Roberton & Stacy Doris)
All honour to the anal cavity.
All honour to mighty pungent couplings of the rose of political imagination.
All honour to the entrails of language.
Someone took a turd to a sage and said: “Look, he is being corrupted by women.”
And the turd said: “Women are always actresses, no matter what they do.”
And the sage said: “Truly, a hard law buggers you.”
The Perfume Recordist butts right up to the edge of the rose of waste to strut in the sewer of womanhood. Where the rose becomes turds and cacophony, we hurl ourselves into the putrid bouquet.
There, we lift our complicated indivisible arses and breasts like complaints and discharge an expanse of rotting petals. Oh, disagreeable Master! Here is our rosy manure.
Perfume’s history is the record of shit.
We have been excrement, filth on opulent paper, ecstatic quiddity of defecation judged profitable.
Perfume is matter out of place, aka shit: a revolt against the exorbitance of boundaries. Waves of roses flow though the sewers. We’re out in more than we can need. We’re matter out of place.
The rosy waste increases, migrates, vomits, beseeches, refutes, despairs, invades, carries us in a flatulent rose tide of spontaneous imitation, ah we are sub-rosa fishermen of spasms, our little skiff afloat in the fetid fervor.
Shit protects one from the moral majority within.
Eight-o-clock at night. Let us now examine the eighteenth century, our cunt. It let loose an extreme jollity and extreme impertinence. It poured out erudition, filth and boredom. Not a pavement in the place, and everything gutters for miles and miles, and a stench to it that plucked us by the knick-knacks. And we were twenty leagues out.
To return to pollution behaviour, avoidance is a process of tidying up. The essential ingredients of our poetry will be revolting.
O rose the pastures in which the night feeds and prunes the cud that nourishes us to prayer, the incomparable fascination of maturation and rot.
And the turd said: “I’m a fart in a mass of wind, a humble bud under a cow-pad.”
Roll on in shit, traverse this absurd age.
The coming musk rose started excreting fell upon our ear and started excreting like the sweet south stealing and giving odor fell upon our ear and started excreting the murmurous haunt of flies started excreting.
With perfume too the excremental juice applied to body and garments is carried across wild trajectories. We are all invasive species.
All value is waste.
Oh, and thank you for your virginity.
(aka, my Five Commandments)
Worry about the truth but do not sweat the facts.
Humor that floats atop dark, horrible, curdled stuff is the best.
Look at the world around you and take dictation. This saves you the trouble of inventing stuff.
Write cleanly and directly. Avoid formal sleight of hand. Be simple, but hopefully not easy.
Know that your greatest artistic strengths and weaknesses are usually the same thing.
That’s all, folks!