My inability of writing, brought me here; not the God of my parents, no, no, what condemned me is the seer saying “life flourishes through work.”
This a summer of reckoning. I was sitting on the window of our neighbor, in a cat form, what can we say about this creature but the very cause of the novel, looking down on that tree wall, that dirt, that field, where we galloped the oblivion. They now assume a mystical status, where an insect is an instinct.
Breton, you fly, woke me up to sovereignty of the child; shook me like the marvelous, where my embodiment gives an ambiguous relation to the human, solidarity and utter hatred; even the eugenicist is benevolent.
I will pile your skin, show it to my demons, they are grinding their teeth, they will wear you inside out and exhibit to the horrified-enjoying public.
I think it is death that makes her itch; it is the grief of the female in the infinite possibility of biology, on the hand of poésie.
Growing up, I thought madness was what Duschamp said, “only other people dead.” where, now, sanity seems to be in the cliche 0f ignorance. The innocence nest, where the french language phonetics expressed my will to escape, occupied that dull tree in the compound of the asylum, or the chair along the corridor.
Now I have surgical replace my tongue for Artaud and Nerval’s, both intense flow produced judgement; which is a sign where the esoteric torture their very being.
Bataille and broad day light, Bataille and the cracking sky, raining eggs, Bataille and over-identification, Bataille and typology of horror, Bataille and Incest dress born Reims, Bataille and life through death, Bataille and finger nails.