a need of profanity

we are not dreams but the city is a dream and we are its oneiroscopes.

i do not speak communication but langwich.  so i am as poor as the urban grass.

communication is capitalism’s transubstantiation and langwich is the holy ghost of a drunken pentecost.

that the city is langwich in four dimensions is a commonplace to spirit.  so the human speaks communication to avoid listening to the cityspeak.

city, city, you who kill creators and silence those who love you, how often i’ve longed to gather your dreams together, as an apple gathers its chicks pricks pricklets knicklers tablets, and you were oblivious.

sauntering through a musée des beaux farts the other day with icharus and antonin on one shoulder, simone and fernando on the other, everyone fighting like anuses, god in the background like some latrine, we pause before a psychiatrist mounted on the wall, wiggling and mumbling to itself.

what are you saying psychiatrist? we ask.

i am asking myself if i exist, it answers.

you don’t, we say.

i don’t! that’s a relief! it says.

only art exists, we say.

but, look! i am art! i am mounted! i exist!

you exist as art, but not as a psychiatrist.

and the psychiatrist, seeming relieved, returns to mumbling to itself and we proceed to the next exhibit.

the city, says antonin, reminds me of a colorectal polyp.

the city, says simone, reminds me of the observation of gravitational waves.

the city, says fernando, reminds me of me even as i remind myself of the city.

the city, says icharus, is the kind of reminding i would like to be reminded of.

ha! you’re all wrong, i say. the city is god’s corpse and we are its maggots.

and when the corpse is eaten? a security guard asks.

we will become as god now is – our dream and register, time’s striven meaning, spheres and someone’s laugh and smacking, a new kind of food and water.

被爆症