Limp

The Titters alongside the tree of round-red strawberries and dead eye afro-men, features the stand-up dog, limp and wet, puddles surrounding the stump it lies upon, and a yellow bun sitting atop – heating beneath the light. “Oooooooooooooo,” cries the dog. The narration suggests otherwise, the long, weak, ghostly, sound, slightly edged out by the industrial rectangular text box. What did all these undefined masses of spectators hear during that show? Did they hear the narration or the cry of the limp storyteller? But the dog is never weak; his inner-monologue an instance of assured identity and yearning. The “oooooooooooo,” is just a ruse. The dog is strong in weakness, weakness is strong.
But what of that tree, the tree, the tree? The red of round-red strawberries within the mouth of the black mass composed of cells and sweat and grooves and skin folds. Beneath the black mass or above, lies the face of a woman whose eyes are blue and dead. Vampirism runs rampant in the blue eyes. The triptych woman measures herself from waist to chest. The red lines tell us the measurement from ear lobe to cheek. The entirety of the mass is undefined. Are we but digested masses from a great tree? Droplets of fruity sweetness, cared by the deadeyes, created in the rounded gaze of the watcher. “Ooooooooooooo” cries the limp, “I’d never wanted anything more in my entire life.” To you Deforge.