See Zizek touching his nose.
See it replaced by another kind of liability:
sweet Princesse de Parme waving across the aisle
celebrating a very approximate breakdown
in the eye of eyes.
Leaping peppers could sometimes just as well be defined as
in the neverending story
of your white elephant salad.
Mussolini wept; catwalks fell;
and carefully manipulated concomitance relays its
retrospections, anticipations, and red breasts.
From the waste down we are the suspension of disbelief.
From the tombs of our fathers to now we are the activity,
or rather the presence, of the narrator himself.
Nothing can overreach its own nonorganized position.
All possibility laughs
like kind hatchets
in the unrealism garage.
seed text: Narrative Discourse, by Gérard Genet
art by recombiner