Sunday, April 1, 2012


Freud's idea of slapstick is taking the root out of an umbrella and dipping it in drain water, comical, palsied gesturing until he's tired, sweater awry, eyes
plexiglass + frenzied giggling subsequently fogging up all over them,

unravel hazardously, or whatever else you
find pertinent to the Alien Rotation

subconscious joke chokes,
respirator offering one bright-turning-fusty
atmospheric detail

How does he think the shoelace got in the incinerator?
He's wrong – it's not nearly as profound as that –
clumsiness reconstituted as the temporal dragging; blue
current jumping across patient's braces, them plumbing patient's own
tongue, dry-mouthed meat hours later poly-crumbed slaughterhouse sexy

He knows no complex object that didn't over time degenerate into simple marsh
diffusion of scurvy-nails, performing every millionth, horrible circus trick fatally
preventing indignity: for the stuck, ghost-tiny synapse, either goaded or tamed,
mission impossible II

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