IFF
For Reb Derrida
The Foot Fetishists pay me compliments, just as I’m being swept away by the Fastitocalon. “I see you not, because you won’t let me,” I yell in high F. Xes come out of his mouth. “Is your love as white as a foaming sea?” I ask. The floater on ocean streams gives me the rainbow look, but I see him not. “Is your desire a statutory epiphany?” I cry for an answer. I’m ready to catch its vanishing point in the infinite. I hear Lyotard dictating: “there is a language without intention that requires not religion but faith.” I dip my pen into the deep ink ocean, and want to write "effigy" about edifying discourses. I misspell the first letter, as “I” writes itself in the flow. The Fastitocalon allows me to break him at “iff,” when I suddenly see him in the context of his ancient history. I glimpse the wisdom of the Aspidochelone. I fall in love with water letters thus and only thus.
The Foot Fetishists pay me compliments, just as I’m being swept away by the Fastitocalon. “I see you not, because you won’t let me,” I yell in high F. Xes come out of his mouth. “Is your love as white as a foaming sea?” I ask. The floater on ocean streams gives me the rainbow look, but I see him not. “Is your desire a statutory epiphany?” I cry for an answer. I’m ready to catch its vanishing point in the infinite. I hear Lyotard dictating: “there is a language without intention that requires not religion but faith.” I dip my pen into the deep ink ocean, and want to write "effigy" about edifying discourses. I misspell the first letter, as “I” writes itself in the flow. The Fastitocalon allows me to break him at “iff,” when I suddenly see him in the context of his ancient history. I glimpse the wisdom of the Aspidochelone. I fall in love with water letters thus and only thus.
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