Thursday, April 22, 2010


He comes to the eyes, through the rot, but the eyes are not eyes, anymore. They have grown into rhyzomes. He remembers from his youth the little black pellets that you'd put on the sidewalk and light a match to. The pellets would hiss and sputter like the fuse of a cartoon bomb, and a great big phallus of carbon would snake its way out of the pellet until the pellet was gone -- gone into the snake it had made and that was made of it. Made of the pellet. Same with the eyes. The eyes are not eyes anymore because they have made something else. Consumption and creation. Suicide -- Transformation -- Birth. [Suic]Eye[d] -- ove[t](r)-[ans]r[f](o)i[rmat]penes[ion]s ... Birth of?

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