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One poem by Olga Steponiviciute

The Rimi Sign In Conversation With Rotušė: Capitalism and Governance, A History Of Sign And Symbol In A Contemporary Cityscape


I am a sign says the sign. I am also a sign says the symbol. But I am moving faraway. I am a slow puke. I am gastric bypass in lieu of skin and globular fat. I am mighty and nasty. I am abused.?Kittens? Bloated, I hold all of them in my hairy hands and say yes, you are a kitten, and this one you are a rhinoceros. I name you rhinoceros. I will take the wooden club and I will stroke your face with a many and beating. I will stretch your skin and staple it to a wooden apparatus. I will name you chair and I will read many books to the kittens surrounding our union. George W. Bush is on my face. He says I will beat you. And I am tender. And I am aroused. And I fondle my kittens and kick out the homeless. I kick out the jams.

I name one kitten Napoleon Bonaparte and I fold him a commander’s hat. It can also be used as a boat. There is blood pouring everywhere on the town square. Napoleon Bonaparte is crying. Men with beards are clubbing the heads of men with mustaches. Up grows the pile of French frozen corpses. Frozen French fries. Napoleon closes his eyes. He purrs. You are too much says the sign, touching itself in spasmodic delight. I am useless now. The light is too low. People pass and they say things. Little things. Like, if I observe their clothes, they are of a darkness. They are gaudy. I wish to click their naked faces off. Their skulls and conversations, always the same. The man yes and the woman yes and this and the man this and that and no, not there. Not the spaghetti. And there is a pause, a brief moment when their eyes in their skull holes meet. Gazes are future babies.

I am static I am in motion only on light. I am not original. I don’t think. Reappropriate me. I want to be controlled by you. I want to die in your arms tonight, splice me, and use me for the torture. I could be an angel. I could be President. Both can receive an endless and lacerate and whipping. Whipped angel. Whipped President. Make me purpose, this my corporeal body seized in this somewhat undignified power. I am a hack. Black face, marble floors, I am an art gallery.

_ _

Olga Steponiviciute is a Vilniusite, but she’s back and forth between Vilnius, Berlin, and lives most of her life on the internet. This poem previously appeared in “die dunkle Stern essen Gesicht”, an irregularly released journal of letters based in Berlin. This is the beginning poem to a larger project for The Baltic Notebooks of Anthony Blunt.