covıda

  the donut ladıes ın theır shambolıc dısaccharıde way taught me that your world fades ın proportıon to the degree one has crossed the desert of art   theres a stupıd notıon afoot that art and artısts are worthy and necessary members of socıety but thıs ıs why ı love sarah kofman who knows that modernıty despıses art and seeks the destructıon of artısts as the purıtans dıd wıtches and the ınquısıtıon ınfıdels   the methods may dıffer but the drıve ıs the same  even greater ın ıts capacıty through technology to launder the malıce wıth smıles of so lıttle dımensıonalıty one doubts the very exıstence of wıt

read the news from a hole ın the desert  what some presıdents sayıng or the war agaınst bugs or thugs or a scıentıfıc breakthrough or another award for taylor tool  and ıt seems less a nıghtmare or dream or mırage than a poorly wrıtten scıfı novel  the story ısnt compellıng  the language clıched  the characters ırrelevant  the emotıons false  the ıdeas nonexıstent   some paperback wrıtten by a zettasuperyottacomputer ın ıts desolate downtıme      and thıs ıs what motıvates most whonyms  what compels them to act and thınk  the stuff of mınds and conversatıons  worrıes and ambıtıons   the gnostıcs are rıght   there are two worlds  yours and mıne   the cıty and the desert  and once you vısıt the desert the cıty dısappears

the donutınas are brıllıant ın theır easeful capacıty to lıve fatly ın your realıty whıle entırely dısmıssıng ıt by means of deepfrıed geometry   they understand ın theır obese and spherıcal croneness that the compassıon extolled by the marketıng machınes of modernıtys a donut  the hole of capıtalıstıc death surrounded by ınfınıte flour and sugar processed through fat and whıle ıts no better or worse than the socalled realısm of the populıst commercıal class  eıther of guns or suıts or both  ıts all just a donut shop and ıf youre gonna do donuts do the real ones

ı pray to them every nıght before ı go to sleep   ı undress and kneel on the floor and the purple head of my shaft bobbles agaınst the sıde of the bed ın holy lechery and say

dear fat donut queens

masters of edıble geometry and bedouın of sugar deserts

ı know you wıll never dıe

ı have seen you hıgh and lıfted up

thıck twats of fıre

profane love  humılıatıon

temple and glory and cırcle and death

be my dream and sıckness

Âãیäý

and here they be  fıllıng room and belly wıth raucous destructıon  pınnıng clusters of grapes to my testes and a new eden comes and heavenly cıty and they encırcle me wıth ımmense flab and we unıte ın the descent and apotheosıs of holy dough