Seth Abramson’s Using Me!!
[ "........ I’m kind of thinking, believing, that even without these peculiar and exceptional contexts (and this is impossible for me to truly know) that there’s something really compelling here. Something really fascinating. Many of you will think I'm goofing around here. I am not ........" ]
to follow is an excerpt from one of Seth’s newly-minted poems (available on Inknode (here) and on Youtube (here) where you can listen to the audio of the poem coming out of the visual of a disconcerting seated-figure):
“…Seth Abramson grabbed her. Threw her to the ground. Pulled off her pants. Ripped off her panties. Mounted her. Seth Abramson’s young pink balls rubbed painfully against her hairy twat. O Lord, he thought. O Lord. O Lord. And finally Seth Abramson collapsed in a young boy’s cumless climax. She pressed charges. Seth Abramson was arrested. But when they examined her they found no traces of semen or forced entry. And when they examined Seth Abramson it all made sense: he had a house-mouse cock…”
(from “Strangers,” a poem “comprised of 275 statements made by individuals I have not met.”)
And this, if I might say so myself, is excellent work (ha ha), and I say so, because I have a sense of humor, and because I wrote a “version” of this in my Adventures of Sex Ableton (# 11, to be precises) that I posted on my old blog back in 2009. These adventures, fyi, were stories that I introduced as having discovered (amid vast gibberish) in the notebooks of a cousin of mine who’d killed herself.
And, here, for whatever it’s worth, is the relevant passage as I wrote and published it back on my blog in 2009:
He grabbed her. Threw her to the ground. Pulled down her pants. Ripped off her panties. Mounted her. His young pink balls rubbed painfully against her hairy twat.
O, Lord, he thought.
O, Lord. O, Lord.
And, finally, Sex collapsed in a young boy’s cumless climax.
The moon was so beautiful. He imagined it was an ocean. An ocean of milk. And he clung to it. Hugged it. Dipped under and into it. And back up. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.
She pressed charges.
He was arrested.
But when they examined her they find no traces of semen or forced entry.
And when they examined Sex it all made sense. A House-Mouse Cock!
I’m fine with Seth’s edits. Fine that he’s using me. I mean he’s writing a poem, right? (Fine even with him editing out the excellent, ha ha, paragraph on milk…Sigh…) And I guess I just wanted to point out that, at least in my case, the “statements made by individuals I have not met” isn’t quite right. Some people, including Blake Butler here on HTMLGIANT and Seth himself, made a connection between “Sex Ableton” and “Seth Abramson”–but I need to stress that in these particular fictions you will find no mention of “Seth Abramson.” (I did I think type “Seth” once, instead of “Sex,” which must have been a mental slip.)
But at the end of the day, like I said, Seth’s writing poems here and I think it’s fair for him to take liberties. To bend the truth. And, this might surprise many people here, but I am quite taken with these new Seth Abramson poems. These new Youtube poems, fyi, where the comments and thumbs up/down features have been disabled, which is a really sensible move on Seth’s part considering the climate of squabbling, bile and war that he currently finds himself mired in.
And maybe it’s this context (the squabbling, the wars, and dredging up of old grievances) that makes the new poems of Seth so interesting to me. So fascinating and compelling. (Maybe also the audio and accompanying, creepy Youtube images.) But I’m kind of thinking, believing, that even without these peculiar and exceptional contexts (and this is impossible for me to truly know) that there’s something really compelling here. Something really fascinating. Many of you will think I’m goofing around here. I am not.
Just a note to say that I’m going to return to being “just” a poet. (Those quotes are intended ironically; I know of no greater honor than to try to make art in the world we’re all forced to inhabit.) Please don’t send me any more queries regarding book reviews, help with MFA applications, &c
is the beginning of a Facebook status update that a beleaguered Seth recently posted. And, again, many of y’all might think I’m nuts, but, perhaps, in these new creations, Seth has found a kind of salvation. A kind of way to overcome his struggles. To rise up over the baying hounds. A way for him to have the last word. The last laugh.
I for one have taken notice of these new pieces. And I, for one, hope to see and hear more of these poems that begin with lines like “I masturbated in a synagogue,” hooking me good and proper.
(And, again, it’s no big deal that he’s “used” me. Sigh.)
Tags: Seth Abramson