6 Jun 2008


something about the post-colonialism of texts. something else about the author’s death – how we haven’t come to terms with that yet. the cortege slows, stalls, meanders aimlessly back to the funeral parlor, there to recite again the eulogy. all the professional mourners – avid readers all – begin to wail in reverse, swallowing their cries into dense, feathered balls curled snugly up into the bone nests of the throat. something about how form is nothing. or was, but only as an extension. of form is content formed. as in the gaseous or liquid states. his corpse as looming as a god’s – after all, how does a deity extinguish as long as there are women to wail at its funeral? meaning’s something we think

of as


there, inherent, preexisting, awaiting the readers’ eyes but independent of them. reading’s different, it’s something you inject – or was it rend – your eyes syringe, synaptic talons.

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