Mercy

bait’s going to transcend the material conditions o f her

situation, fuck you very much, Mr. M arx. The bait’s going

w ay past Marx. The bait’s taking her eviscerated, bleeding self

and she ain’t putting it back together, darling, because,

frankly, she don’t know how; the bait’s a realist, babe, the

bait’s no fool, she’s just going to bleed all over you and you are

going to have to find the words to describe the stain, a stain as

big as her real life, boy; a big, nasty stain; a stain all over you,

all the blood you ever spilled; that’s the esthetic dimension,

through art she replicates the others you done it to, gets the

stain to incorporate them too. It’s coming right back on you,

sink or swim; fucking drown your head in it; give in, darling;

go down. That’s the plan, in formal terms. The bait’s got a

theory; the bait’s finding a practice, working it out; the bait’s

going to write it down and she don’t have to use words, she’ll

make signs, in blood, she’s good at bleeding, boys, the vein’s

open, boys, the bait’s got plenty, each month more and more

without dying for a certain long period o f her life, she can lose

it or use it, she works in broad strokes, she makes big gestures,

big signs; oh and honey there’s so much bait around that

there’s going to be a bloodbath in the old town tonight, when

the new art gets its start. Y ou are going to be sitting in it; the

new novel; participation, it’s called; I’m smearing it all over

you. It ain’t going to be made up; it ain’t going to be a lie; and

you are going to pay attention, directly, even though it’s by a

girl, because this time it’s on you. if I find a word, I’ll use it;

but I ain’t waiting, darling, I already waited too long. If you

was raised a boy you don’t know how to get blood off, yo u ’re

shocked, surprised, in Vietnam when you see it for the first

time and I been bleeding since I was nine, I’m used to putting

m y hands in it and I live. Y ou don’t give us no words for

w hat’s true so now there’s signs, a new civilization just

starting now: her name’s not-cunt and she’s just got to express

herself, say some this and that, use w hat’s there, take w hat’s

hers: her blood’s hers; your blood’s hers. Here’s the difference

between us, sweet ass: I’m using blood you already spilled;

mine; hers; cunt’s. I ain’t so dirty as to take yours. I don’t

confuse this new manifesto with being Artaud; he was on the

other side. There are sides. If he spills m y blood, it’s art. if I put

mine on him, it’s deeply not nice or good or, as they say,

interesting; it’s not interesting. There’s a certain— shall we

understate? — distaste. It’s bad manners but not rude in an

artistically valid sense. It’s just not being the right kind o f girl.

It’s deranged but not in the Rimbaud sense. It’s just not being

M arjorie Morningstar, which is the height to which you may

aspire, failed artist but eventually fine homemaker. It’s loony,

yes, it’s got some hate in it somewhere, but it ain’t revolutionary like Sade who spilled blood with style; perhaps they think a girl can’t have style but since a girl can’t really have