The Bled Heart of
mURmURiSts
Evidently, due to an untitled usury - age-old, malformed anddiscontent (or the blur, the paper-fold, the diatribulation) - Ihave to start with a capital letter. Effort ... and all in sunlight,too. Bother to read me; bother to in-read me. I am not boo hoo,through subtle, with my sexuality destroyed at a stroke. Who willI survive this time? My actual name starts with a capital letter,and I don't need your consigns and self-making. Upon my ego, Iwear my boots. (That concept, that construement, that spectralconversion.) Your non-acceptance, your way of thinking, is not somuch beyond them, as mommy tells. The art of seduction seemsto be missing. What shame awaits? How nice it would be.Thosepossibilities are insane. Your last missive was no battle of wits.On the contrary, it was cynical, all surface, and devoid of momentum. Some might say I am merely watching you change.But, within that, I am eroding your comfort zone. One recentdelicious moment was when I published your diary for last monthin an email to all our friends. Ha ha.You shred history into aseries of theoretical conveniences. I cannot take your medicine. Iwatch too much tv, you're right. Too seldom, I have attempted tomultiply your possessions. I am no breadwinner. I have, instead,conquered the atom, with pills that do everything.I am your ironman. My iron is libidinous in and of itself; it is material. As aseparate and separating category of pointing matter, it scratchesboundaries onto the reference sheets - paper or otherwise - of both fantasy and reality. Faux of interaction, it plays out, andwears out, a subsistence normality, made from the errors of taboo and the desires expressed by extremity and its liberation.What emerges as apparance reads as repetition seeking theclosure of disuse. Could I, in all this, bring out the ongoing? CouldI situate? Where, I ask, is the explorer?
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