Primordial: An Abstraction

52

And so I thought to myself:. . This liebestod is no mere subliminal excrescence. It is some queer manner of Faustian, brick-layered scatology. Do you think the emission of my selfhood into the commode is funny, or cute? I am on the threshold of transformation from overcoded schiz-flow to self-immolating becoming-tortoise, a process implicating certain transversals that will bind all of my vectors together and possibly jeopardize my admittedly destratified concept of molecular conformity. If only I had a beak; my dripping cathexis might have been subject to an entirely different manner of abjection. I remember — yes, I remember everything now, if only for a wilting and perilous moment — when I took the agrégation. I performed well on the examination despite my stepfather, who occupied the starboard flank of the classroom and heckled me, lobbing insults and scribbling fearsome genitals on the blackboard as a means of distraction. But nothing distracts me when I accomplish a certain quantum focus. I feel like I’ve done this before. I feel like I’ll do this again. Once you engage a singularity you are doomed to fondle the ticklish parts of its shadow for eternity. The commiseration of meat. Chickenscratch. The logic of sense. Damnation is a far cry from the blues. I have neglected to remain impartial to dogpoets. I mention dogpoets in all of my books. I don’t know what they are.