(April 27/06)
I am neither this or that, that or this. I am what lies in between, the that this, the silence within the this that. I am a bedsore, the septic wound that won’t scab over, a syphilitic ulcer that will never heal. I am the carotid artery that begs for more oxygen, but is given none. I am the shit bag appended to the bow of your hipbone, a conduit for the waste drained from a prolapsed bowel, the cesspool that collects the unwanted sewage. I dispense of nothing and have nothing to dispense; I am indispensable. I am the Rector’s surplice cinched round his churchman’s collar, the hair shirt worn beneath worsted Oxford broadcloth. I am the swine in Swinburne, the fuck in Foucault, the flaw in flawless, and the ass in assonance. I am all of these yet none of these; I am the that this, that which lies in between this or that, that or this.
Holderlin’s der Bildungstrieb
pure imminence
bled from the menace
I am neither this or that, that or this. I am what lies in between, the that this, the silence within the this that. I am a bedsore, the septic wound that won’t scab over, a syphilitic ulcer that will never heal. I am the carotid artery that begs for more oxygen, but is given none. I am the shit bag appended to the bow of your hipbone, a conduit for the waste drained from a prolapsed bowel, the cesspool that collects the unwanted sewage. I dispense of nothing and have nothing to dispense; I am indispensable. I am the Rector’s surplice cinched round his churchman’s collar, the hair shirt worn beneath worsted Oxford broadcloth. I am the swine in Swinburne, the fuck in Foucault, the flaw in flawless, and the ass in assonance. I am all of these yet none of these; I am the that this, that which lies in between this or that, that or this.
Holderlin’s der Bildungstrieb
pure imminence
bled from the menace
of world
