Strangely Attracted to a Lack of Sense

I’m feeling strangely attracted to the can of viscous motor oil in the corner. I could have said “vicious” but I’ve just come from the cornershop thrumming in a pink and light blue aura of sexiness, one that is ineffable in these turbulent times. Anarchic times for desolate people—times for rows and perturbations. Give me some kind of sign. It doesn’t have to be a walk hovering upon the water kinda sign or a multiplication of leaves and frog’s legs sign, but let it have that old-timey censer mysteriousness about it, as if you’re driving me crazy to ask you why you’re swinging censers that way, and what is that smell? Is it frankincense? That sounds like it would smell of toe jam cheese … lift me not into temptation and deliver me from anvils. Semen. Okay take a blithe light around the blockyard, you. Just leave me alone. You gimcrack addict. Get your orgasms elsewhere, maybe at the Orgasmart—they’re open 24 hours. Be off with you … and your pedestrian fish pix.

“Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.”

— Adam Zagajewski / “Try to Praise the Mutilated World”