Nazi

Obviously,
you want to step
with your muddy shoes
on my naked body in my house and
fuck my beautiful wife pressed to the wall.

I started
I ate up a piece of paper
I attacked another paper with a pen
The pen wouldn't touch it
My fingers wouldn't touch the keyboard
I was engaged in a fingerwrestling
I gobbled up the paper

I was unable to write even about nothing
As it would instantaneously turn into something

In schizoid desperation
I looked at the wall
My glance alas did not taste the wall—
All the four sides were covered with walls
And these completely hidden beneath plenty of bookshelves:
In the bookshelves
The books were all arranged with their spines turned to the wall

There it is—
My real
My gigantic canvas
Upon which
I create

Why?

I take out
my nerve-pallette of enormous sizes
the motley gamma of all the hues of my nerves
strewn and sputtered savagely upon it

I clapped my hands, walked a bit, the bathroom ran up to me, I washed myself, it went back, with the two already well nerved hands I grasped my feet resting on the carpet, the magnetic field of which was exciting the hair on my feet with its magic ghosts, I turned myself upside down, I dipped the wet hair of my head in my incandescent nerve-pallete, which kept growing richer second after second with new subtle nerve subhues, and on my vast canvas I painted heterochromatic fallen leaves and a woman's boob that has become an anthill with an ant crawling out of the nipple. Then I undid the image and in that very place on the canvas made up of thousands of books
I painted
my immense
self-portrait.

I admired.

Until fifty past twenty three.

Like you, I myself don't know since when,
But a little bit later

When they came
I was in the altitudes of megalomania
And each visitor
would pertly violate
the boundaries of the marginal permissibility
of my compulsion for totalized grandeur
I was in euphoria of deep despair
I told them and
I am telling it to you too
That I will create such a work
That will bring forth a paradox flabberghasting—
you decide whom:

I am going to create a work, which will illustrate that as a matter of fact the word art had emerged long before art as a phenomenon did.
That is to say, après la lettre vs. avant la lettre,
at the beginning was the signifier, and then emerged the signified, and, moreover, millennia later, and, moreover, thanks to me!
And it is I who says,
an offspring of the XX century
that has mothered schizophrenia,
ripe and vigorous a character of the centenary
that is causing a massive disease called "Allergy from the XXI century"

I am a Nazi
An Artist by nationality

My audience had come on a visit—some of them were visiting me
While the others were visiting my self-portrait
In a word, themselves.

I took a look at them
I felt I was in a hall entirely covered with distorting mirrors
Restless
All alone

They were continuously doing something
I personally communicated with those who had visited me
But I was not jerking my huge self-portrait
By rapidly shifting some books
In order to enable the communication between my self-portrait and its visitors.
My huge self-portrait was an image integrating all possible moods,
positions, ages, situations, states, contexts.

The canvas itself was wonderful—I never keep crappy books.

A teenage girl
was laughing her head off
I was calmly watching her
extremely tightened lips
It felt like in some restroom, looking into a bowel while flushing
In the spittle drained out of her
we were breathlessly trying to catch sight of
the granulated reflection of my picture
a unique Walhorian replication
CRESCENDO on end

I was growing more and more conscious that the name and the thing can never be identical, therefore the very truth is inexpressible at least through language, unless it is the language itself!

It is the middle of the summer today

but he farther away I stood watching her, the cuter she appeared
quite like my far future.

Timely is whatever I do
Even my delay is in time

I always choose the possibility to choose

But I felt how I was losing
my balance,
then yours,
my orientation in space,
my feeling of time,
your feeling of time,
I lost the pangs of remorse,
I lost the remorse of pangs,
My clothes I had on hid from me,
I turned tone-deaf,
Leaving home I find myself outside
Returning home I find myself outside
I dumped her
The most loving and the most devoted creature throughout the entire universe,
'Cause I could hardly believe…
'Cause… I didn't give a damn!

Because I do largely prefer impulses to women—
I am ready to sacrifice the latter
For the sake of the former!

sounds from all sides,
no sound from no side
neither sounds, nor sides
With schizoid despair
I began counting my fingers,
fell off the count into the rabbit hole
But a bit later I felt
that something completely different was happening to me,
It was mere frame judgment…
In fact, I felt
it was the rabbit hole falling through me
getting nowhere

Tolling its bells
The Armenian church
Rattling its five cupolas
crossed a long way,
came up to me,
miaowed a bit
lit the fall of the rabbit hole through me
with a candle and, seeing that
no landing is ever expected,
blew out the candle
crossed a long way
came up to the priests
lit that candle and knelt down:
the church was asking the priests for absolution.

I was unable to discern what I saw
I was even unable to determine whether it was something I saw or I heard, where am I?
I am migrating from youth,
as ill luck would have, it is a black night
Oh I cannot make heads or tails
impossible to tell
is it my native city blinding with its shining beads?
Or is it rather the starry sky showing off its constellations
in my fist,
or an ocean
in which both the city
and the starry sky
have found their reflections,
And I was in nirvana…
Where was I heading?
Wherever a caravan
Without camels

But it is not that important,
so,
what happened with the hole of the falling rabbit
or with the rabbit of the falling hole
or with the falling rabbit hole
or with the falling of the rabbit and the hole
or why was it all falling?
or why just all that?
or
well what an answer am I to give to all that?
What an exhaustive answer?
What's the sense of an answer in general,
if I myself don't have the slightest idea
what the sense of life is about?

The sense of life is in the experiments to impart some sense to life

A rhetoric question follows any answer
So what?
Chicken butt!

Commiting social evils,
In reality, they are evils inasmuch as
they are unfavorable
to those rubberstamping and controlling the law and order.

Oh twiddle-twaddle
Anyway, one ought to be tolerant:
After all, it is the immorality
And not the morality
That underlies the true human nature

Morality is nothing
but a top manifestation of human hypocrisy

whether useful or just indispensable
hypocrisy, at any rate

at least to acknowledge

Well, let's not disturb those who haven't yet.
The rest! Come on!
What I am only going to show
See!
Grab!
The instant!

In a single wink her eyes performed all the enchanting phases of the moon
The ebb and flow inside me
bumped into each other. She touched me
at the right moment
in the right place—
total chills had erected my hair
like New York skyscrapers
All over my enviable body

She was slowly licking my tonguescrapers.

I was shaving my hair in the wake of her lick

So what do you think?
Why create?

To me personally this issue has lost
All its former relevance:
For me, creating
is as natural and indispensable a need
as pissing and shitting

I guffaw, swallow so many words and scenes and ideas daily
that I hurry to my restroom and
sit before my bowl-computer and begin
the most esthetic
the most oracular
the most nonsensical
secretion!

Some unknown hand had addressed and shipped you
to this Work—on demand,
As you can see for yourself, the Work has already received you,
it's been reading you
it has written a reply—vide supra