Webster's defines "This brilliantly planned and orchestrated crime"
as:
Mike and I talk Art in unsophisticated terms, which means we really talk
art. I'm rolling my own cigarettes, and it snows shreds of goldencrimson brown
flakes that expand when you breathe them in. Such is my desire to fill me with
whatever air can offer. Leslie calls looking but I can't do much, clean my
glasses with Windex thinking that maybe it's just my eyes, the soft edges of
objects defining themselves but weakly, in kiwi Frankenstein. Mary reads
Donald Barthelme's The Dead Father--I wonder what she thinks of such
a scattered, fragile thing? Were those nightmares when I was a kid really
about the dumpster behind Lakeview Elementary? I went walking down there the
other night, stoned, listening on headphones to a music made without
instruments, and the house my father died in creeped me out so much I hurried.
Two mannish silhouettes will follow you. Why do I never share with anyone
whatever seems sacred to me? You're tailed by two poolish eyes, glinting off
the second-story window of the house my father died in. You're just right,
Mary, because you too are restless inside, like really restless, and we share
an gorgeous instability, raucous and ravening. Shaun Ryder raves on. You
dreamed when you were a kid that you were a butterfly's man, and you moved
volute wings via sexed pulleys via tracks.
Mine. Mine mine mine.