serried calmplex

the smile comes at a great cost the laugh on the other hand she says the laughs a function of an aesthetic incontinence that arises from having lived past an indefinable point and so control becomes a kind of immiserated regression and bypasses judgement and currency and she remembers when she smiled at that overpriced cafe in bamberg lunching with the scheitenschläffens and their poodle an overgrown delphinium more coddled than afonso pedro de alcântara cristiano leopoldo filipe eugênio miguel gabriel rafael gonzaga and what was she to do but smile at the thing and yet even now on the altufyevo bound platform of serpukhovskaya station delirious with the abyss of dial log and canopy of shiny marble and the vaults like a sealed doorway of meaning and war she regrets the gesture and wonders however irrationally or truly if the entire sad trajectory since has been born from that blunder which seemed only tactical at the moment but in the haze of hindsight stands monumentally like a strategic oversight so encompassing how can she even momentarily think of herself as belonging to any club that might consider admitting the wise

take me for a ride in your rutabaga convertible down the boulevard of artifice he says as she lifts her skirts by a revolutionary pillar and a corpse from a corner watches him kneel and draw hieroglyphs around her labia as if he were some pseudoscientific egyptologist and her sex a tabula rasa dropped by stylites far far down from the hard salvific heights of mortified oblivion onto a pragmatic mangled purblind earth

were savage she says and datas the only escape open the window of data and look out on its kind landscapes and pull up a chair and let that be a life today though ill just listen to the wind

you were once an aquifuge of rare delight wholly impermeable and without remorse or promise but now youve become or perhaps always have been and only now in some display of projected rectitude finally expose a pathologescent imago for the maw of the persona craving commons this heirloom of a failed archeological expedition on some timescale were incapable of inventing and she grasps the base of his throbulescence and guides it to the spelunking chambers wet with spiders and the dismemberment of metaphysics

the people are busy they do children and jobs and relationships obligations they call love or necessity wear you down through confusion and interminability the machinery of it all words of collegiality and care and acts of ambivalence and aggression the warm and icy hand the childish waiting for disappointment the crucified dreams lined on either side of the hallway as you return home to your mind after a lunch that felt pleasant enough and as you leave realize was nothing but another hostility

quem deus vult perdere dementat prius he says but heres the dub

it all fails next to dream theres dream and then you wake up and if you remember the dream maybe you talk to a therapist or a dreamspecialist or your friends if there are any or a book or the internet or just figure it out in your own miserable scatological head or some or all of the above and theres a meaning or the meaning but art isnt like that its just dream and never tries to go beyond art like love was once supposed to do never fails because it never succeeds if we ask what art means were asking the wrong question and the corpse presents its visa to the authorities and joins the heaving and her septum between the rubbings of its bone and his meat is an oracle without divinity or pointing

why are you talking about art like some wayward cheracebus lucifer theres nothing that would justify your

i will completely annihilate you she says with tea tree oil and lavender

i find your taciturny more irritating than mysterious he says and the two perform a kind of interruptus not well explicated in the manuals that purport to deal with such matters and the corpse and he retreat to a vending photo booth to continue the discussion heres the deal she says for theres no love like money and she borrows some vodka from a passing trobairitz to douche herself afore and aft and return to the psychokinetic constructions of an abject minstrelling

the trains arrive more or less on time and the photos taken and the trains arrive and arrive again and go to sleep on their iron beds and awaken and go to task again and memories stalk those of all and no dimensions as unity marches in the pitched reel of words

and so the three she corpse he in the afterglow of love in their ways go their separate ways and a story however fallen or befogged befoggings told