The Body Of Our Saviour

The Alcoholic Trance Is Not Just A Haze, As Though The Eyes Were Also Unshaven. It Is Not A Mere Buzzing In The Ears, A Dizzinessor Disturbance Of Balance. One Arrives In The Garden Again, At Nursery Time, When The Gentle Animals Are Fed And In All The World There Are Only Toys.

One May Decide That The Nipple Most Nearly Resembles A Newly Ripened Raspberry (never, Be It Noted, The Plonk Of Water On A Pond At The Commencement Of A Drizzle, A Simple Bladder Nozzle Built On The Suction Principal Gum Bubble, Mole, Or Birth Ward, Bumpy Metal Button, Or The Painful Red Eruption Of A Swelling), But Does One Care To See His Breakfast Fruit As A Sweetened Milky Bowl Of Snipped Nips? No.

I Should Like To Suggest That At Least On The Face Of It A Stroke By Stroke Story Of A Copulation Is Exactly As Absurd As A Chew By Chew Account Of The Consumption Of A Chicken's Wing.

My Face Is Muffled In My Mother's Clothing. Her Rhinestones Injure Me. See: My Feet Are Going. Fish Flee The Forefinger Of My Aunt. The Sun Streams Over The Geraniums. What Has This To Do With What I Feel, With What I Am.

It Art Can Only Succeed Through The Cooperating Imagination And Intelligence Of Its Consumers, Who Fill Out, For Themselves, The Artist's World And Make It Round, And Whose Own Special Genius Partly Determine The Ultimate Glory Of It.