1.

I will be a supplicant
to women until the
revolution, uncertainty
of principle my
only guide, will fight
with the guerrillas
and eat only meat
I catch. A Teutonic
forest – boars, computers,
primitive accumulation –
will hide me, the
sublingual secret
remaining one-
part flim-flam the
rest pyrrhic victory.

Now the second-day
of western thought is
beginning to note
the violent exit from
‘Religion as Political
Ontology’ into ‘it’s
modernity that degenerates’;
always from unreformable
disabusion to proliferating
non-futures.

When
we were young and cold,
travelling from the forests
to the hacienda, I loved
the sight of the word sortie.

 
 
2.

So I laid down the paper on the snow,
northwest of the ululating hill, the
king had ordered the melting mound to
become a sight of weekend revolution. We
knew modernity, and studied its
signature flora. Stars accidentally
scattered across the table, nonchalantly
lighting the lukewarm wine. I am not so vain as
to imagine this collection of chainsaws is
for me, but they would be useful in
the latest fracking field. We
prayed to St. Peter. Is that something
you do? The emotions around here were
very traditional, and you could –
agate was everywhere. Norminations for
the last avant-garde were now closed; as well,
Columbine and Stevensian development was still a
fact of life for most subjects. What was the cause of

all these accommodating smiles?

I didn’t know the answer then when I was asked, and so could only mutter something about primogeniture. In theory and in practice this has not ended and will not while there lives only a revolution of men. Until mothers are sans culottes and there is a nursery called La Commune freedom will be an idea best considered after you get tenure. Until then, wine bars. The body can repose well in any place with wallpaper of yellowed newspaper. The body of the north might – objectively – seem more alive there, but that’s a trick of light and police statistics.