Sunday, November 1, 2015

Feral Words

The signs employed in propositions are called rudders. They steer the mind, which would otherwise drift aimlessly, as it might do in an airport, or law office.
There are medications available for ataraxia, eudaimonia, euthymia, and upekkhā. The key word is for. These are medications in support of euphoric solutions to the nettles and thorns of life and appear in a variety of forms: ecstasy, codeine, dithyramb, dada. 
Most of my medication has a coefficient similar to Holland, which is why I’ve chosen to go through life explaining facelifts to the faithful and plunge my fingers into strange anatomies. Sometimes I grip the light in my hands dreaming of the heraldry of stars. But most of the time I stand around trembling like a soy bean. The mazurka deepens my appreciation of milk. I feel perforated and evident.
Happily there is a farm where we can dig for potatoes and become real men. I have a map of China and can run circles around a rusty sabbatical. Even the railroad flirts with abstraction from time to time. When the storm arrives we can elope. I’ve fallen in love with a clock. It’s a broken clock, but what does that matter? Time is an illusion. Let the local architecture thunder in solemn approval. There’s more to sketching a bewildered psychoanalysis than embarrassing a glove compartment with last minute propositions.
I search for power in the folds of a hog. Later I ruminate on the quantity of sweat this produces and lean over the balcony to study the crowd. A flock of words raises the highway from a delirious libido and puts it into a lithograph. The question is, whose words? Are these feral words? Are these the words of an aleatory abstraction or do they belong to a rogue arousal?
Let us suppose that the spine is a spiral staircase and that the lumber destined for paradise is pure dogma. Does this mean that states can be described but not named?
I get the measles whenever I think about woodbine. You don’t know how sensitive I am. Pretty women torture me with hope. Yesterday I had my stitches removed. The sublime bends my blood into a speedboat. I’ve grown feathers. Meanwhile the Druids forage for old Beatles records. I stroll the waterfront enveloped in a solemn socialism. Even the gargoyles complement my exquisite grumpiness.
It is said, in these regions, that the structures of propositions stand to one another in internal relations. I have no reason to doubt this. Life scratches itself whenever it’s near a railroad. I say life as if it were my next door neighbor. Life is very close to me. I think, in many ways, that it is life that causes my fingers to itch and burn whenever I hold a proposition in my cupped hands and feel its little heart beat with controversy.
The world is the whole world. There is nowhere else to go. If Robert De Niro doesn’t make you feel better, I don’t know what to say. You might try licorice.



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