The pinky moon was swishing all
quivering-flanked, heaves, vomits, sniffs her
vomit, looks to the horizon, sniffs the
air, standing still, looking, ears erect – She
was fluttering, falling, fundamentally
somatic, fanning like hearts; a distant
name in an exotic and privileged
setting – Miuccia Prada for
example – pulsing upwardly post-
metaphysical and if I sit at
my desk in my big coat it’s because words
are cold.
Now, the glorious suture or the
philosophy of the tree. The tree doesn’t
“have” “a body”. This means when it comes to
the need for changing, the tree just waits. It
takes all my art to live beside a tree
with uncaused devotion and the
abandonment of determinism and
I am sad.