Monday, November 05, 2001

Requiem for Anti-Oedipus

The hand that strained
let go,
Broken blisters flowed free and dropped the rug burnt rope.
Sweet release into the night's bath of wind and fall,
an icy shower over cobblestone streets.
Eyes flickered and cast off one last tear,
An angel, head baptized in the splash of bone and brain on the sidewalk below,
A rhizome flower,
grinds out and shimmers in the nightline for the last time.
A mess smeared on concrete and
served to intellectuals' mouths.
The yawn becomes a gasp...
No more theory.
No more silly schizo masturbation.
Only silence in vacant university classrooms
as our jaws hang open and
we stare at the wreckage of Freud's last cruel joke:

"Tonight it was announced on French radio that Deleuze
has committed suicide
(one report said that he 's'est defenestre' ie. threw
himself out of a
window)."
[Melissa McMahon Sun, 5 Nov 1995]


I'm on these little yellow pills. My dermatologist gives them to me. They're really expensive. I swallow them every night and feel horrible the next day. They say that a senator's son killed himself while taking these a while back.
I wonder how he felt about that. I wonder what was going on in his life. Did he have relationship problems? Ontological issues?
I guess I'll keep on downing these things like razorblades until my face is suitable to be shown in public.

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