Thousands of Acquisitions

Passing before the terminological slop of negotiation and guarantee, in and out of circles I guest. I am so far driven by my lovers, I even alter my handwriting to furnish their accommodation. There is a period of acclimatisation without paths to castles, only mazes, nosebleeds, involuntary changes in diet.

Why would I invent these creatures?

I think I am suffering from the desire for a confirmation of an assurance from contemporary 'culture' that I may persist, so that any addition I make to the sum of reality can be true.

With proletarian resolve, with a chocolate box and some sassy cologne, and my old 45s, with a Rolex watch and a blank cheque, some pickled strawberries, my Debussy hologram — like a calico Medusa of the final programme in the temple of Odeon, a succulent feast at the heart of the beast: I give you the soil of your own graphic intimations!

Let me kneel before you saying, 'Every single moment is magnified', saying, 'Nobody melts, not like that' (at such-and-such a time and so on and so forth).

Longing for your carnal remains, I'm your chameleon, char-grilled, purchasing gratuities, laconic, desirous at the façade of the cause, shaken, dying for relish at the spectacle. (Continuity errors: in a fake fur coat, rather indecorous, the interloper-usurper approaches in a convertible at the periphery, mounting shrewd operatics before my daemon's managed to eradicate everything standing in the way of Paradise.)

There's no reason why.