Alphabetic reorganisation as a form of futurist liturgy by means of which uneducated unemployed pieces of plastic, alloy, metal, glass, people'd computers, wired cities, piss [ochsenfjord] and dried semen pretend they are carrying sables. Pieces of bound tree as ammunition through which criminals shoot in to the crowd, lazily and with eyes closed. Earthworms think of Earth and nothing else. They secrete their juices over unseen places and meld in to the walls, carpets [ochsenfjord] and cities made of vomit, climbing over each other and dripping from the bottom of bins, frightening the girls. They don't eat at the café, nor eat with knife and fork [ochsenfjord] and have no goals but to wriggle and decease [yet even when you try and cut them]. Consider abandoning participation. Why have ears when there is nothing to hear? What does the dribble that is spat in to the webbed wasp's aural cavity and is dressed up as conversation matter? Contemplation has ended where contemplation is nothing but repeated platitudes and uninspired banalities. "Why had we even walked here when we could have stayed at home?" Familiar? The life that has already ended requires no general practitioner nor consultation. Why leave the cave? Metal and Plastic reality has already seized our cities with a klang klang boom and we've made good use of her clowns and whores. Isn't Marinetti standing amidst the humming wires that sit like the nerves of the city above the tram tracks and glass? Hadn't we imaged ourselves storming throught this or that alloy manifestation of electrical paralysis?
Hadn't we been lodged between these two buildings before and had let their glass and alloy grow like lichen upon these ivory shapes? What is wrong then with letting metals and plastics [and thunder channelled through copper] infect the other end of this sinking platform? The mental faculties are in disrepair and there are no more aphrodisiacs with a strong enough poison to make extension erotic to these yellow crusted eyes. Aren't there those weeks where upon our paralysed motions and upon our turgid reflections sits the illusion of transcendence, naked and white with a little death around the eyes? [And that we know that our only chance at fucking the whore is in doing something reprensible]. Wasn't the aphrodisiac a boredom of listlessness? For bowmen who sleep on the roof in winter there is only that and nothing else. The rest is merely dressed up pieces of cardboard. Is it right to drink the nectar? Or wrong? It would seem one day both and the next day neither and if only the latter then it is the most necessary of aevyls. There is no charity but in giving absolute hegemony over extension toward yourself. It can not be shared with anything but the smallest of audiences who stand on tippy toes to hear for something that may very well never come. [And how could I possibly share the steps that lead to the illusion of transcendence with anyone but someone who is willing to understand it even if it is wrong?] Splendour is only available to those with the weapons necessary for its acquisition [one for the dagger and one for the sable] or an infinite amount of daggers and no sable? [For who can really say they are Achilles?] Consider[...] nowhere is paradise written but in the non-sequacious dribble that drips from gutters, old bridges and train stations in disrepair [only in drinking these poisons do we imagine we have seen Zarathustra in the rusted metal chassis swinging beside a half-broken stone gate near the metal tracks and pebble stones]. That is paradise. Because that is all we know, we will continue to commit crimes both literary and otherwise, through humiliation and embarassment. I've seen veneration of a leaf, but this is not to be praised. This is to be feared.