It is wrong to suppose that language is about communication. James Hall does not communicate. He sniffs a piece of the invisible, picks it up with his mouth and lays it on our doorstep. What we call language is sometimes a body, sometimes a carcass, sometimes a feather, sometimes a bone.
Reading is not communication. It is something else.
Boom boom boom.
I know girls who listen to Frank doing the girl-punk-slut Sylvie just to see how its done. How a girl talks when shes talking with her pussy. How to tease an ear with a tongue, at a distance. There’s nobody like Frank doing pussy.
“What do you like, Thorn? What do you like to
DO? You know, in the green grass….Outside… Or, inside…”
Or, “Wanna take the afternoon off? Put your mind on hold for a while? Take the stairway to heaven?”
With that low, raspy, throaty voice that is a man’s voice pretending to be a woman’s mouth, this reading is an infinite, indeclinable invitation.