Attila

From a novel, LAOCOÖN, which began thus:

Oh Laocoön seer and prophet relegated to uselessness for the sons you had and loved, the god that assumed your mind confused your generation with that of them the twins you had and I agree with Goethe that one of them likely Melantho escaped, at the mercy of your intervention, from the rings of Periboea and I agree with Winckelmann that you needed to rouse your battle cry but to distort with advantage your countenance capable of exercising ophiophagy for you! Oh Laocoön who came to defend your sons in their snake-fighting no one disregards today that the wattle Apollo found up to two pretexts to punish your love on your heroic sons since you sent them to found another race of Hercules but they disdained immortality and did not tremble before woman and the catapult! Oh Laocoön El Greco was right to paint you at the end of his work since you illustrate the same message as Prospero and Sarastro the omega the beginning of the future generation the faith in youth and in childhood the Atlas of the future that prism without edge or roundness that is all his surface! Oh Laocoön dawn of a new noon the Laocoöntide the equatorial one in which stones and men recognize themselves without names dawning of a final noon in which the sprig sinks there whence it sprung!

            And Laocoön’s strength still stands. And Laocoön raised his arms. First his forearms. Then his arms and then his hands.

            Covered in tattoos you displayed your torso before a new time with respect to that in which your contemporaries remained outside! Spectators to the shelter of the coming! Out your torso of plumber-dragon and your veins were verdigris and your mouth a lemniscate with two ophicleids and the native soil lost your foot! Suspended from serpents your gallows forehead nose and mouth protected the fruits of your arborescence protected them from your helicoid tangents serpent of contact but self-generating I repeat self-generating! Unattainable for the group for the quarternity! Diagonal of your sons! Secant line of Euclidian Ophidia! Ink pad of their subjectivities antagonist centrifugal cyclops for a kiss! Teleological pedagogue! And paragogic then! In the dental formula a lion’s upper dentition and the bottom that of a horse! Expression without a quiver! Prometheus neither philanthropic nor theomachyan but rather truly in love! Genitu against tails! Suckable suckers! Everything is success! Even pain is vanity!

            Mutation of De Vries when you will come when you will heal the stone of dust that life makes sick, sea of dust and skiffs punctured by punctual needles mouthpiece on whistles.

            New son genitor of offshoots our case is not that of an individual but of a species our anthropological point of view be more Laocoön than your father and less than your son there is a distant son who will know to think about the pain whose orgasm will galvanize his thought who will think his pain who will run riot with his thought distant son laughing his head off much more sensible than those who smile!

            Oh day! Not, Oh today’s place in which yesterday longs for tomorrow! enough.

            Oh Laocoön bear in mind that your sons’ youth can exgender you. You can congender yourself in it!

            Oh today that you want to take a surname tomorrow leave your possessions manufactured yesterday suck your thumb and clap your feet until it is wrinkled and they are fingered think with your eyes you will soon hear focus on your nose that your strabismus meets patrona of your face ratio of forehead and profiles the draughty the one of discriminative memory weld your atavisms with your idiosyncrasy weld your logos with your nous cast your importance your customs duty-free father cast your shoots invent the words of tomorrow lethal to those of yesterday poisonous and you will evolve the new onomatopoeias and hygiene of the verb the extinction of description the perfect future presentation of subjects make the statuary of future, the iconoclast in present, gemonies the rest, forget everything and the canvasses will unhang the sheets will unlink remember must do, before have to do!

            Anthophagy is of no use if not to endorse this culture of oralities. How much lives off its overcoat. Like bodies in the void our births fall at the same speed.

            Chin and lips belong to the nose. You wore desert glasses, the roundness of the lenses making more of a splash than their smokiness behind those truncated cones your corneas filmed the helmets of the world the inertia of these ephemerals appealed to tomorrow your tricksy pupils abused the dark towards a coal.

            Fingertips and hairs against teeth and scales.

            When the man stood up the keratin fell.

            Antigone assassin who sows your idiosyncrasy in every man history is not a necessity but homeland writing is still testament it is impossible to write impossible to stop writing poetry has no uncle in America. Neither will ethics arrive one day when this will be a redundancy! No one speaks some write. The truth is that no one knows their legacy and therefore their language. Fashion decants genius that decants ethics that passes fashion: the Antigone cycle.

            Oh gray-less ether oh edge that curves the visuals when will morning dawn where will morning dawn . . . will it evaginate today? will it co-penetrate tomorrow? This is another time the sucker of another necessity.

            Toothless Laocoön you seize everything and the furrows of your forehead program your engine action let your feet solidify your waist let your shoulders obey and your neck subjugate them let your hair radiate in a cone, in inverted cone in cone again let your muscles accentuate your symmetry half a body for each twin double body for each amphisbaena! Rotor Laocoön a spider of ash isosceles of thunderbolt! your wrists embalmed your ankles ant-like Laocoön navel-less from your centrifugation.

            Go forth and lose yourself so that your children may return. The hero’s role is to place oneself outside, to enter the outside, to go and not enter a vehicle, a building, or in the shadow of a work site. Not to go retrojected as Antigone is projected. To go from the beginning and not enter for the end. To go today now and not enter into today forever. The hero is the one who faces the dragon rain the ivy of dew the succulence of the flake the change and the bag of the stone the sworn spectator of the toad and the slug the lighthouse of the centipede. Diameter plus one little extramural dot the hero pockets the ethical dihedron. The last of the Laocoöntids, your son will play hoop with meridians and dawns at night to increase the translation of the lands.

            There is only way to love: be perfect. And only ludically can one be perfect.