Relative Drunkenness


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Excerpts from The Derivative Series

The derivative are poems created from as many as 5 different texts stuck together and rearranged and then rewritten with my own additions. This has been an interesting excercize in intertexuality.


The instrument of expectation consists of a brass cylinder and a piston filled with the object of her rage. She seizes him. A thin line down his torso–is mapped out judiciously. When Mrs. Harvest reverie is over, she returns to call on the gentlemen of The Barber-Surgeons–sits down among them, just having dined. Another time, according to one curious narrative {which has been published in the local papers }, she was in a particular city performing a dissection–when an organ suddenly ceased playing. An elderly woman, ill in bed and {half opened}, cried out, “A little preparation!” Mrs. Harvest had stumbled over the rib spreader and might not have discontinued her invasion had not the frightened patient made a fuss at her intrusion. The ill woman found the audience to be exceedingly obliging on this occasion, though perhaps a little disposed to the ideas of Mrs. Harvest.

It was said that she would write a letter to one person but address it to the son.

“'I am afraid to explain my curious preoccupation with anatomie.”

On the eve of being married to the bishop's son, she brought the ramus of the groom. This would account not only for the strange behavior of the ladies, but the grooms inability to speak. In a very public manner, she indignantly broke off the engagement.


He pours a glass. I laugh marginally and conclude with an evasive anecdote about Mr. Tartuffe. Finding Dr Harvest in the room, instead of the apothecary, I worry that the thin partitions will not separate he from us. We are suffering from the same dissatisfaction – consisting of the changing directions of love. We have already concluded,

“That love, in its cruelty, has been traveling through space, since before the invention of time.”

Our affliction seems to arise from a torpor of the nervous system or from the states that
our discussions have a tendency to produce. It is the way my erotic questions are taken, lacking subtlety. Perhaps it is because I cannot account for feelings I have since reading CHAPTER X.

“Love to be considered credible, would need to be authenticated by the LOVE OF PLANTS. ”

Incontestable evidence {as their leaves droop and become folded together}. A laughable instance of self prophesy. A metaphor to be used by us as an excuse. I want what I want to want. Dr. Harvest relocated to India. She lived with him for many years afterwards. {Absence is generally incurable.}


It is right that we should have something which ought to be acknowledged. Incisions are made in various parts of the body. These are filled with manuscripts and then carefully sewed up. The skin afterwards – an envelop in a coffin, a letter containing the words of the prophet. The same by which some attempted to cure all the diseases of the mind and cast out devils, even after death. It is familiar to hear of such practices, [Undertakers are too common] and once sought, they will acknowledge all infirmities of body and mind. A Kurdish physician , acquired great celebrity from his success in embalming children – upon their flanks he would write, “Heaven is too small. “

[xix.] His observations were verified {of a heaven filled with bees} of golden haloed abdomens teaming with stars. Questions remained– As to if– their angelic choirs humming were the source of the Vedas? or the blue queen that gave birth to Krishna? The great masters painted angels wings, multicolored indicating the transmission of love feathers hermetically hiding the translucencies of bees. He therefore hypnotized a theology of pollen, of gods manifested in the honey and the sting ? His diagram of heaven showing :::::::: a hive and a fulcrum::::::: and dervishes in the desert– spinning directions.

copyright c.a. leibow 2004