Precise, astute, and uncompromising in its nuance, My Pleasure lives in the poetic entanglements of pleasure, disgust, and agency. From the bed to the club, the coal mine, the power plant, and the jail cell, Silt asks: Where do we extract pleasure, and what pleasure do we find in extraction? Is there sex without work, or only before, during, and after?
Unfurling the binary distinctions between freedom and control, language and pause, and mind and body, My Pleasure does not imagine a different world so much as it embodies the possibility of another order within this one. Destroying time, rotting money, and leading us into the trenches of wanting, these poems are odes to the power of finding yourself flat on your back. These poems bring us into the ecstatic tremors and absolute terror of self knowledge, all touch a violent mirror to the world and a flight line from the inflexible motions of capital.
My Pleasure throws every possible angle of light upon desire so that we may see its shadow, honestly. What do we lose when wanting becomes having, when work becomes pleasure, when we are forced into the waning existence of escape?
What do we win when we lose ourselves? There was something like an occlusion then, I worshiped his skin for the camera, and then my head hit the cheap tile wall again and again and so. What is deeper in life than just wanting to live? The book is sopping wet, dive in. For the whores, 'the destroyers of time,' the family is the psychosocial unit, which measures everything defined and excluded by it, along with all the forms of pleasurable relation made possible outside of it.
It is this outside that allows Silt to ask, ' What is deeper in life than just wanting to live? It rests inside of me, languidlyβlike a fist, or rage, or self-loathingβuntil it can be released through the fluidity of desire, a liberatory lubrication that recognizes, ' Sex will be something we do together to do everything else we need to do in the world.
