The Origin of the World
Here in the country is where you’re given signs on the limbic plane
and where metaphors go to die. I think I bit off more than I could chew
when I decided to wear this pomegranate red fedora all over Paris.
Even the most handsome sculpture must give his face a rest. It is good
to lower your body into the crystal blue epsom salts; it’s like removing
the hidden razor blade in a Halloween apple just as the car you’re in
smashes into a wall. What I mean is akin to licking your nostrils
and colonizing your sensory apparatuses, like blurry edges or sexy
fur. I am all akimbo with the details of the real which have had a dizzying
effect on my sales staff. This dizziness is my debt to Munch and Klimt;
this bit in the bottom left is the garden of my mind, with you splayed
in an Adirondack chair. Having an imagination is so much fun when
I’m not despairing. Think of Courbet. Now think of Coco the gorilla.
Now think of little eddies in a fast limpid river with a brown stone bottom.
It’s fun telling you what to think. You make me sick. I’ve never been
in a conga line before. Have you?