ulianov

Truly is the womb a Killing Lackness?

Surely is the cock a Ruthless Sameness?
Over and over
Moaning in Freud's ass
And Lacan's eyes
In Irigaray's hands
And Bataille's lies
All the sweating bodies
Are staring those guys?
All the decaying kids
And the screaming nannies
Are moving
With the dance
Of the Phalluses?
Upside down the flesh
Is talking
No truth can be produced
Only the deaf silence
Of a thirsty blob
That ask and ask and ask
And then produce
Attribute and glow
Somewhere else we lay
In other lands we go
But the problem is
That for how much far away
All the being can go
Our eyes are still
Our body dying
In the same place
At the same stop