Inverted Commas: The Gruesome Obituary

The master-signifier digs down with his crooked two-fingered hands,
Crushing in his evil embrace the Is and Wes and Uses,
Like frightened children we freeze – before escaping
Into the prison of the organless body.

The lines of flight cry out for fellow travelers. Assemble!

Gasping in the foaming ocean of desire we multiply, rebel.

WANTED: Nomads itching to stay, craving soil and muddy rivers,
Nimble-footed and heavy-handed, rambling.

Tucked between inverted commas concepts wither,
Without struggle, without song, locked in archeology.

De-terra incognita.

LIBERTAD!

Personal pronouns of the world, unite. Stream the code.