The question now, you think, is who can really afford this law.
You’re in a life-facing position.
Your interior is all exterior.
You’re in favour of a potent inhumanness.
Its immateriality is spoken, transmitted, temporal, not arbitrary.
You’re in the part of the night where it’s quietest.
Thus an hypothesis occurs to you: consciousness is cosmetic, but not in an individual sense.
You’re interested in the brutality of description: it is the traversal of this infinitely futile yet fundamental and continuous space called the present.
Still, you’re totally in love with subjectivity.
You’re making a site for error.
With seemingly insufficient means, you slept, you wrote, you listened.
You’re not so spiritual and light either.
Your vocation for research did not abate.
You’re the most imitative of all.
You twined your whole history of love into a wreath and this was it.
You’re witnessing the belated eruption of a real condition.
Windshield wipers, train crossings, tape loops.
You’re also been women.
The form never extinguishes its own irony.
You’ve entered into the surplus.
You did not disappear to yourself.
Your concept is clear: to practice dreaming, then to dream, then to make a record.
A gate made of forceps and silicone tube.
Your concept remained surface but you didn’t yet know why.
Wherever you go, you will be a city.
Your differential was necessary.
A bunch of uncanniness emerges, smelling of foam and violets.
The economy did this to you.
And these phonemes were the phonemes of a perfume that combed your body.
Your errors are colossal.
More collective cosmetics! you decide.
Your face was pure query.
A thumb-sized bird, a medieval allegory, a metaphor that sustains the activity of thinking.
Your feathered hip tutu speaks.
A gate made of cotton, nylon, rubber and leather.
Your fidelity has ceased.
Beneath it the slithering black river.
Your fluid would be spit.
Still there was no solution for the fabulous problem.
Your formal discretion expressed itself in the non-convergence of identity with itself.
The grand law empties you of preference.
Your goodness lifts like a cock.
The I-speaker on your silken rupture spills into history.
Your historical pleasure was metrically interrupted by the inadequacies of terminology.
Then you keep spilling.
Your intellect works only among tactile traces.
You’re good at it.