Sorting through the pile of stuff behind me, I come across two pages of a book… torn out and folded:
“… for having contracted the softness, the habits and women; there is lacking only a resemblance stitution. Excessive use of humectants imitates the metamorphosis and makes alike in the physical as in the moral human race, if this prejudice extends mon people; there will be no more diers, for they will soon be rob vigor necessary to their …”
Turning leave the next says: “…Showers, hitherto less used than baths become the favoured technique. And parade regains, beyond all physiological variations ceding epoch, its simple function of purification quality attributed to its violence, an irresistible away all the impurities that form madness, it reduces the individual to his sister merest and purest form it is matter…”
Fragments, fragmented menses… of Foucault
The ex-wife texts me and seeks solace through the familiar. I inform her that I am anything but familiar.
Sloughed skin of badger’s paws stinking in the dawn… pestles and porter whom carries your bags… feathers of Maat and suicides go splat… ink thinks and squids do the dinky dink dance on top of Mr. Stick… it matters ‘cos it's a harmony in my head… It's a harmony in my head…
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18 Apri 2011
(c) David Blank
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