bleed as i f God put a sign on me; blessing or curse, it draws
flies. Tears o f blood fall from them; they weep blood for me,
because I’m whatever it is: the girl, as they say politely; the
girl. Y o u ’re supposed to make things up for books but I am
afraid to make things up because in life everything evaporates,
it’s gone in mist, just disappears, there’s no sign left, except on
you, and you are a fucking invisible ghost, they look right
through you, you can have bruises so bad the skin’s pulled o ff
you and they don’t see nothing; you bet women had the
vapors, still fucking do, it means it all goes aw ay in the air,
whatever happened, whatever he did and how ever he did it,
and yo u ’re left feeling sick and weak and no one’s going to say
w hy; it’s ju st wom en, they faint all the time, they’re sick all the
time, fragile things, delicate things, delicate like the best
punching bags you ever seen. They say it’s lies even if they just
did it, or maybe especially then. I don’t know really. There’s
nothing to it, no one ever heard o f it before or ever saw it or
not here or not now; in all history it never happened, or if it
happened it was the Nazis, the exact, particular Nazis in
Germany in the thirties and forties, the literal Nazis in
uniform; when they were out o f uniform they were just guys,
you know, they loved their families, they paid o ff their
whores, just regular guys. N o one else ever did anything,
certainly no one now in this fine world we have here; certainly
not the things I think happened, although I don’t know what
to call them in any serious way. Y ou just crawl into a cave o f
silence and die; w hy are there no great women artists? Some
people got nerve. Blood on cement, which is all we got in my
experience, ain’t esthetic, although I think boys some day will
do very well with it; they’ll put it in museums and get a fine
price. W on’t be their blood. It would be some cunt’s they
whispered to the night before; a girl; and then it’d be art, you
see; or you could put it on walls, make murals, be political, a
democratic art outside the museums for the people, Diego
Rivera without any conscience whatsoever instead o f the very
tenuous one he had with respect to women, and then it’d be
extremely major for all the radicals who would discover the
expressive value o f someone else’s blood and I want to tell you
they’d stop making paint but such things do not happen and
such things cannot occur, any more than the rape so-called can
happen or occur or the being beaten so bad can happen or
occur and there are no words for what cannot happen or occur
and i f you think something happened or occurred and there are
no words for it you are at a dead end. There’s nothing where
they force you; there’s nothing where you hurt so much;
there’s nothing where it matters, there’s nothing like it
anywhere. So it doesn’t feel right to make things up, as you
