I present to you, dear reader, an irredeemably childish and irrepressibly joyful cartoon that popped into my mind from as I read Lisa Robertson’s poetic narrative of revisionary sex-politics, XEclogue–a fantastic piece of work that deserves better than what you see above.
It features a set of characters called the Roaring Boys. Above is my (reductive) depiction of one. Don’t let his jaunty gaze fool you–he’s lying. Here is an excerpt from a section called “Cathexis”:
Lady M: I’ve walked through the gate and awoken–I feel my hands are incognito and fringed. I’ve seen all that can be called lovely. I fancy myself upon an idle fellow, boats passing and repassing with so slow a motion, all massy silver under the stiff wild vines–I roll the still boy out . . .
I tumble in the luminous musculature
of an ideology
swift and pretty,
enclosed as the edged-zest
cross-sex jut of knowledge
as Romance is French, bombastic
end-stopped, supple, passing as a tulip-shaped
end-stopped panic epistemology, legitimate
fantasy. Chthonic Machine! I’m compelled
the blue jut (gigantic gist)
“I’m torn between passion and honour.”
Nancy: Consider the swell light of the social as floral, as reflexive, as reflexive, so compelled to shun sex for the museum. the task would be to reveal the metaphoric function of the gala lining of our favourite coat. Romance hedged; swift cathexis or villainess escapes actual repertoire of gender stuck to the heart like a spurious clone.
Lady M: Don’t look away! The quiet gets me. This little thicket is my portion, my supple jacket is lined with a humming. Here’s what troubles me: erotic capital; families of women; utopic capital. When I describe shame as floral a weird little freedom is my equalizer. I’m all flattened out and swayless as if, secret and dark, birds flew in a grid at night. Erotic capital shifts, renovates the bosco. I feel as if there is so little time!
Roaring Boys (singing):
Come hither, Iron and Pearl, into the trees
Clearner and more modern than
Worked fur when fur shows up a dark bruise
Or days filled with mud-resting demons
As brushed qualms
Slipping into waxed purses shaking like milk.
Got any examples of sex toy in literature? Thoughts on Robertson? Silly pictures? They are due!