The Philosophy Of Furniture

I subscribe to suede when it rains in Paris. Gargoyles dance around my knob. People wander by like minstrels in a penal colony. The corn is hulled in voluptuous neutrality. All the solids are pulverized by description. Nothing is so familiar it can’t be transformed into crystal. Containing water teaches insects how to profit from sudden sharp pain. This came to me in a dream dressed in bird claws and wheels. Now I know what it means to write a novel underwater in my pajamas.

The story begins at home. A man with a vampiric intonation and a transparent body finds an eyeball in his martini and hurls it at a wall where it explodes into kangaroos. The clock paddles forward on grooves made of family picnics. I think I understand glue now. It coheres in silence and sometimes reveals tiny bubbles, each of which contain an empire of haiku, and rudiments of something I call suction. The tinier feathers are from a presupposition. The teeth are a narrow part of otherwise, which just happens to have a mouth all ready, carried on the arm like a tattoo.

I write this out of jealousy for Edgar Allan Poe, who wrote “The Philosophy of Furniture” 182 years ahead of me, when I was still dead. Not fair. Tonight is going to be different. Tonight I ignite all the phobias, each pinch of privilege, and give myself to you. I feel a multitude coming on, and some opprobrium, which I will use to season my chagrin at all these interruptions, which waiters are really good at, but what was I thinking, before I was interrupted? I’ll have the cognate supreme with a side dish of quarrels. Life is so lonely without spying on my adolescence. I still see it, off in the distance, working hard on an essay about Poe, the bastard.

One day I will finish with regret and it will leave a trail of absinthe and lilies, otherwise known as French symbolism, which is central to the idea of fetish, a pretty Indonesian hat made of abrasion and implication. The sunlight got me started. It stirred my chlorophyll and I blossomed into a sweet sticky substance with a hammer-like head taught by Heidegger. It felt like wool and fur during a hard Bohemian winter. I questioned an isosceles with a whirlpool and the answer provided medicine for everyone in the lobby. Foreknowledge is a rooster. But we can’t have eggs without chickens. I feel useless surrounding summer like this, but winter is still distant, and I’m in need of a conveyance to get these planispheres to the villa, late at night, in my sleep.

Now. About the furniture. The idea of inventing something insincere finally crossed my mind, and I set to work at once. I built a table made of brooding inflammation and a chair that wandered through itself celebrating inertia. A carpet is the soul of an apartment. If anyone gets vertigo they can lie on its plush tenderloin and fall asleep. Pots of mussel shells, arranged marriages, people cut from magazines and turned into puppets enliven the salon, where I also keep a parakeet, a portrait of Benjamin Peret, and doilies which have lost control over their feelings and resemble the random utterances of a vagabond. The player piano plays Booty Wood. Undue precision spoils the appearance of many a room. Therefore, everything will be chosen for its vigorous asymmetry and riotous coastline, & the mirrors reflect nothing but naked artifice.