on metaphor // sleepy notebook philosophising

forever abhorring metaphor’s avaricious nature, how every flower’s a metaphor for youth and no youth a metaphor for flowers and all the world’s a stage until everyone falls down around you laughing when you tell them the stage is a world (or the world) (then fall gently back into their offices and officiate your language until it eats and excretes everything concrete in sight that you’re desperately trying to birth again, always, and always too late).

but maybe this explains it, then; the puzzle, the ordinance:

how the nation is always a body and the body is always a she but the female body never, never, of any national importance.

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