A professor, between sips of espresso, said discourse
was the purest form of art. After all, the half moon is hegemonic.
The waxing undermines the working classes. It takes a special kind
of cynic to understand this, and after six years in the institution
I’ll admit to the displeasures of coffee. That meaning’s just
a mop to clean a happy abattoir. Some nouns need adjectives, like knee
socks and nose rings, but most don’t. On the locked
door of the House of Borrowers, the sign says Conceptual Art.
Which proves my point precisely.