Go to sleep, masturbate to an incinerating photograph of an obscene telephone,
ejaculate flowers into a pornographic heart: it doesn't matter. There is
no way to defeat it - it will still manage to fill every finger of the
pointless glove.
The world
palms you, sets you down, changes its clothes, the world steps out suddenly;
it is mysterious, it tries to leave clues but has no fingerprints, moves
things with its mind but has no hands; the world looks different from one
day to the next so that you passed it on the street without a word, you
rudely didn't even deign to notice that it perhaps greeted you; except
that perhaps in retrospect it... looked familiar in the way that... strangers
can. So you do look back after it after all, to see if for some reason
it is weeping openly, but it doesn't seem to be; and oh you could recognize
it if given half a chance, but it is leaving, and you don't know why.
shmoetry
Surrealism
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