The day before Christmas I'm looking through a bus' smudged window rolling past a construction site where the Bride is hanging, perhaps from a rope, in an isolated cage, or crucified. The bachelors remain below, left only with the possibility of churning, agonized masturbation. Duchamp invents the working parts of these two sexual machines, which are as arbitrary and absurd as the machinery of Roussel which inspired them. Their mechanisms are so complicated that a wood and steel armature has strung up, with the premonition of walls.

Not long ago there was a muddy hole here, surrounded by a linked fence, with a sign advertising Space for Lease. We appropriate space as we do everything in sight, instead of the illusion of sight, and of space.

We
      compete
        to see
       who's
            madder,
     the wasp
                 or I.
   

 

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