A Lass of Cinnabar – Candy Rhizomatic

“If cinnabar was sometimes red, sometimes red and sometimes black, sometimes heavy and sometimes light… I would never have the opportunity to associate – i.e. my imagination would never have the occasion to associate – the heavy cinnabar with the colour red […]”
-Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason

“But, sure, that reminds me now, like another tellmastory repeating yourself, how they used to be in lethargy’s love, at the end of it all, at that time (up) always, tired and all, after doing the mousework […]”
-James Joyce, Finnegan’s Wake

“Ideas, the most beautiful, incredible ideas start to blossom, like jasmine.”
-Unica Zurn, The Man of Jasmine


If cinnabar were sometimes read, blue or white and tufted frond, oh, a lass of cinnabar, a buxom blonde to toast you all, whether tequila or rootbeer, confused, delirious or dead, lucid or intoxicated, really fun and good in bed, oh yes, alas, a sin in a barroom bathroom, fucking in the toilet stall, alas, a lass of cinnabar, she really sets your teeth on edge and makes you drool her mantra-sick, sour-apple expression-face, a nosebleed evening in a car, expensive bubbly limo ride . . .  A lass of cinnabar, whether a cute lolita teen with braces bouncing on her first or second dick, or seasoned female in her prime, she’ll sin again, I’m sure of it, she feels a moistening in her crotch, the groovy odor nasal drip, she spilled the beans for sure this time, a gooey slosh inside her throat, her heels like daggers fold her now, her lipstick knocks em’ dead for sure, she does her eyebrows really well. . .  A bust of James Joyce in resin, bought from while stoned, along with clothes and jewelry, now it’s sitting on her writing desk, a cruel reminder that she’ll sin again, like Finnegan, and tipple till the morning tits of overflowing christ bizarre, aha! A lass of cinnabar! Alas! The brutal rape of Sabine women in a sinful bar, the earning of the trauma badge, she’ll sin again for sure, repeat original, it’s tricky, see? She’s cinnamon, a common girl, but wait until she fetch a pen, she writes now with the best of them.


I’m waiting for a station train, my nosering gleaming like the moon, I’m folded in a gooey pose, like Candy said, it’s really hard to sin like Sally Cinnabar, Oh God! She really knocks em read, I clobbered her in the bathroom stall and now I’m hunted by the law, who saw her fall? The sin is hard to take when fictional women jar you like nails on a chalkboard squeak, coincidence? Or just a joke? A wink, from Sally’s sinful grinning face, her pretty pigtails prim, her fluted shape, her winning ways, affection for the only King who’ll take her far along, to Castle Cinnabar! Have a cigar! Rewind, and watch the numbers crunch. It really makes you think about.


Inflamed, her gooey insides go bezerk, insane, her crotch smells wet, the stinky waft of pheromones, confuse the callers swivel yet a hardon still, keep it in your pants m’lad! For goodness sake, you pervy kid, you god damn little naughty boy! For sure, a lass of cinnabar will always prove a haughty toy!


And finally, the vortex goes VAVOOM! And everyone goes so wild, she’s done her trick and all will toast the gods to see how she is crazed, the scene is filled with her perfume, what’s more evil? what’s more good? behold A LASS OF CINNABAR:

last call enfolds them at the bar, she crouches in an animal pose, their tucked-in erections as she rose and sashayed down the aisle. Her pretty lips, her pretty eyes, her pussy has a pretty purr, alas, a lass of cinnabar, will sin again, she’s gone too far! They grin again to see how ruined she is by sin, that wayward whore! Who could ignore her trendy feed, it’s food for the crowd, she ne’er was a bore. A whore! A WHORE!




A crudely-fashioned voodoo-doll, a bit of blood, a lock of hair, enveloped in her witch’s mask, an animal out on the prowl, the huntress with her armor on, see how it gleams! I’m almost sold! Within the advertisement screen! I hear her scream! A horror show! She always pushes things too far, theatrical, performative, incredible, her booty moves like magic to those hip-hop sounds.


Decay, decide, debauch, debar, retard, refuse, relinquish her, en-tongue the lass of cinnabar, en-bum the lass of cinnabar.


Her insecurities amaze, a veritable xmas load of gifted complexes, hysterias, neuroses, lest we give short-shrift to how complex she is, the way she chainsmokes like there’s no tomorrow, drinking whiskey from the bottle, snorting coke off of a mirror, she’s insane but we all love the way she helps us lose control, she’s everybody’s chaos god, aha! A lass of cinnabar!


Sally Cinnabar stares at the solid statue of Joyce, that cheap resin bust: $29.99 on, yet the symbolic value it had to her, the iconographic rapport she ha with it was immense. Many a lonesome night she set herself to write with Joyce’s inscrutable, mask-like visage as inspo, and the words flowed, flowed. . .











“I’m Sally Cinnabar!” she would laugh to herself, tittering at her genius. “I’m the cinnamon girl! All the sweetness of this big fat world lives between my legs! Taste of my wonders! Have your fun! I’m Cinnabar! The Sometimes Girl! See how it’s written, watch me go!”


At the gym she’d tone those juicy thighs, that yummy ass, those supple arms, a subtle six-pack maybe, for why not? She was the Lass of Cinnabar! Surely her gender was mixed-up! Buff she was! Yet delicate! Oh so fizzy and bouncy too, she sure could make it wiggle, wow! She sure could make it jiggle, oops! She sure could pop that pussy and you’d sure forget your cares and woes and attitudes beliefs and ideas, all there was was booty, BOOTY


all up in your face

she’s the lass of cinnabar

everything that’s good to eat

she really was a tasty snack!


She sure did have an evil glow, she was corrupted to the core!! Watch out!! She’ll make you fucked-up too!! You’d god damn better be on your guard! You better fucking keep your moral code intact, for it’s a slippery slope once she’s inside your soul, fucker! You better believe it, kid!


Oh sloppy moon! Oh moron stars! Oh whore-faced clock, that ticks for every solemn cock or dripping cunt in sight! To her they all must bow, and stir within an inch of life, to her tight cunt’s vice-grip guillotine slicing off their clever heads deposited way down below, underneath the earth’s thin crust.


Truly it is sordid to disclose: how Sally’s literary ventures failed. Yes, it definitely could have been much worse, but the mediocrity of her prose made her feel completely worthless, washed-up, when she saw how other writers only liked her for her sexual joie-de-vivre, a certain libidinal panache, a delicatesse, yes she had style, but could she write? Would Joyce be proud? Surely the answer is a definitive, declarative, demonstrative “no.” Absolutely not. Joyce would be ashamed for sure.


To all the critics her work was tasteless to the core. Imitating Joyce the way she did was tantamount to idolatry! It was positively pagan, not to mention cheesy, hackneyed, bogus! Flagrantly disturbed and very uncouth, besides which she was clearly just trying to fuck her way to the top of any art-world clique that would have her. Furthermore, the Joyce-fetish aside, she relied too much in general on formalist artifice of the cheapest type, and cutesy turns-of-phrase, making the reader wince at just how twangy and deranged they were, like detuned strings on an old guitar, or at best tinny like a badly dented pot you bang on just to piss off mom and dad. It was definitely out of step with what a truly good novelist would have to say. There was no message. Only self-indulgence. And the killing-blow was when Rex Hairdo Orifice in a New Yorker article said “she couldn’t string together the basic elements of the basic Balzacian plot-diagram to save her life”. She was therefore, alas, no novelist yet, but just a simple wife! A hausfrau Sally seemed to be. Should she just pull a Sylvia Plath and end it all for good?


No! She would not let herself be put off by these chauvinistic pigs! And like Odysseus (or better yet, Beckett), had they been female, she plowed on, failing better and better until she got it right, critics be damned! Why couldn’t she have the biggest dick in the room herself, what’s to get in the way of phallic sovereignty for Sally? Answer: absolutely nothing! This epiphany was decisive for the direction her life was to take from now on. And strap-ons would line the walls of her darkening boudoir (as her finest writing-pen acquired an aura that would one day grace the glass-enclosed cabinets of a museum in her honor). As Ted Hughes put it, darkness is the scabbard of her knife.


An epic poem she would write. Well not too epic, it had to be something public, something like a manifesto, a document for the world to see what worlds she contained. To capture every crucial truth, and show how a biography performs a theater, a masquerade of identity and difference, each moment of its personality plugged-in by a signifying chain, each story sutured surgically by the arche-writing of a daintily hovering hand, delicate like the fingers of the last King in that Alfred Kubin drawing, howevering horror, rending mischief to extremity, but also Just and full of power, welded with the iron of noble wartime. It was fragile, not unlike a Tinguely sculpture, but at least it was a decent worldview, and an artistic vision. At last she would make it big and be a star for a legitimate reason.


If she could have a burly dude, to sooth her with some smooth guitar, how her vagina it would groove, that slovenly lass of cinnabar! Her snarky ways deceive you but her pride will take her very far, her clit and g-spot always ready, to be pounded with the hammer of Thor: her juicy gushing fluids leak out, like clothes blown off the drying-line, she’s lost in torrents of erotic mischief, that clever little dandy lion! Oh, a lass of cinnabar, so far we’ve gone, so long we’re hard, when pounding all the night away, and charging room service to her card, you’re nervous when she looks at you, but she can make you very hard, and happy too, if she’s in a good mood, but beware when she gets mad, she’ll make you wish you’d never had a cock, she’ll cuck you like Prometheus vulture-picked upon a rock!! Behold, she’ll sin again, and ever more forever finnegunned, cocked-sure and ready at the vault, to stick your pole inside of her, be ready when you flip on top and slip beneath or dip into that tasty cunt with sour-sweet love that nasty lass of cinnabar. That nasty ass of cinnabar.


She keeps it cocked, she keeps it loaded, lusty lass of cinnabar, her ass so sweat, her brain so loaded with solemn thoughts that keep her strong, she’s got philosophy to the gills, and theory too, oh so critiqued her solemn thoughts, they keep her strong, wait til in bed, she be a freak! She’s cute in prim when lecturing, but dirty dog between the sheets, that’s how she swivels back and forth from secular to sacred, how the edges of the cosmos meet, heaven and hell between her legs.


A lass of cinnabar, twisted grinning star, sinning star, my shining princess-whore, who begged for more, typing at her typewriter, igniting her, inviting her, never could have doubted her, immortalized in sea and sun and foam…


-Candy Rhizomatic