A Re-Presentation

To pursue the end (and I have to admit to a desire for recognition) with the mindless throbbing fervor by which the porn addict hunts and hoards his prurient pray. We must, then, address that other, novel organ: the soul. Address, well no, inflame? See it there, swollen with blood and neon, spilling blue and pink light on the squat structures over which it towers. Let us not be mistaken. Dear god no. Not for romantics! There is adequate distance now from Spenserian-monologue poets and anti-Spenserian-monologue-poets and tautologists and slippery entropists. That pulsing neon cock is our papal bul. We are licensed vegas-the-sequal-poets. We are Times Square blue. Someone, shamefully dancing, must parody the parody of a parody that once parodied a re-creation of a famous parody of... To live happily, growing hippo-fat on the pith of the abyss, the mirror house, the tower of infinite regress, the soul! Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy... and all that.