Pt. 4

And so the light which knows no shadow the is as is not I.
A curse upon conformity and all its noddingness
a scream way before that maddening Scream,
before art and culture and all its soddingness.
Leonardo and his wretched vanishing point,
but who's going where?
Rene and his pornographic I'
I think therefore? But tell me, why?
An ill-conceived jest or just another poxy lie.
I am? Am what?
Nothing, nada, rien du tout'.
Ecoutez moi je m'appelle Pierrot le fou,.
il y a un moustique dans la chambre,
c'est sur le bout de votre nez.
Nah, you need gerrit off yer chest ?

Yup, call me wastrel if you will,
but I'll counter that contrivance,
flounce its stillborn pretensions,
but not by design, for what might the template be?
Nor construct, for construct presupposes form and entity.
No, I am all or nothing at all,
both dead and alive before the pall.
Forgive them, Mother, they know not...
Know not what? What?
The rivers are sucked dry
and I am down, my friend, you and I
both fated and sated that ever more we might entwine.