There’s a lot to be said for logic and its enemies, but to stand on the threshold is a balancing act that requires measured self-deception; a leap just long enough to land standing on a ledge.
In the whirring noise of telephone rings I was cradled by a motherless city and grew tall in another crowded nest, where the fissures on men’s brows grow wider by the day. Between their tapered machinations relics of truth are barely present; they show face in random phrases scattered through the crazed speeches of the desperate : besides the Seine’s soiled stream and in the metro stations a man sweeps the gutter w ith a single blackened tissue and a drunkard cries out for long-lost wars.
What is the sense of this place, where the “right thing” is so contingent on the whims of the subject that it is right to call it wrong and wrong to call it right? In protean times where empty terms carry the likeness of ancient hope—where words are microbial and self-consuming—the wilful ignorance of vapidity is the only basis for a passion which even the worst begin to lack.
This is futility incarnate, and everything has occurred before it in reverse entropy; this vile outburst was screamed before me ,by an opposite collision of cells thinking it may writhe its way out of the trap :
“You musty mannequins”, it said, “may I join the grandiose orgies of proto-propositions and leaking puss galores? Show me the way you prancing poofs. I’ll ride your rusty rails to pathetic prospects so that I too may stand on waning pillars, holding discordant clusterfucks and cognitive chasms. Put me through your lauded lobotomies of lactose intolerance and gluten deaths, and grant me the clitoris karma of pollenating pissers. I want to tumble towards a wall with poorly developed mammals, I want to be in on the rectum rape!”
And so it died, in a past now present, having circled back to its preconditions, to a “Home” romanticised by epics and signifying nothing. It isn’t honourable, inadequate, beautiful or ugly, for the very terms were designed to be believed by the laughing God who forced us on a path we shape by wanting to avoid. This is a uniform, infinite field, putting on the pretty looks of a meandering road. What ant would leave to pick up breadcrumbs if a loaf of bread was stuffed into the colony?
