I’ve been avoiding the center of town lately, sticking to the parks and the waterways, thinking a lot about a narcissistic society, dancing death away, badly, that puts a premium on clever and sophisticated, much better than god, who was killed, because he was the silent type who didn’t clap when we shat the bed, we’ll show him. And wading into the sea, I factor the price extracted for this tedious illusion of progress and dominion as detachment from childlike awe and the joy of shucking doom from its shell, and the head-exploding chaos to come. Too bad. The animal in the ship wills the tiller in blind degrees, with its tail, as it fucks your mother on barnacles and slurps out the wrinkled heart of Robert Redford, who doesn’t die, but instead conjures a brilliant swansong. Undrownable, I doggy-paddle my round cuspids to shore seeking a genius and emotionally victorious mentor who can move me through these blocks and into action/adventure. A teacher, yes, but also someone whose breathing example is the cure. A one-clawed crab in my shoe. May I help you?
Visions and Explanations by Paul Gachot and Sarah Bay Williams