The Text

The Text

Beyond the greener grass,
all language is Foucault;
no language is Derrida,
and form is the fulfilling of my shoes.

The illusion is that we form ourselves, outnumbered,
in a bewildering placeholder world,
as the pen, in the age of speaking rollerskates and beer coaster hawking,
speaks lorem ipsum for us.

Nietzsche’s cookery, fundamentally referential,
we must find there in rose of be.

Anti-millenialists, Cixous, Derrida, Postmodern Dialectic, eh?

Deconstructing the language of irregardless
is the act of figurative sin.