A little bit of Clay

How dysfunction leads to fetish and the gospel gets rich. Ah, libretto is such a beautiful word to motion with here, and to,  and  the joke blows through it like a buttered temple. Whatever. It's my libido afterall, my sex drive, that makes me so creative. says Clay. It's my libido, my sex drive, that makes me so destructive, too, he adds. All silently of course. Who would admit this aloud on stage. Maybe a dancer. Maybe the girl I'm not brave enough to admit I love. I love her so much I create and destroy her just to create her again. Jazz made this neurosis cool. Cool made it cook. Cooking turned it black. Carbon to be exact. But to copy no one, that's the only fact designed to survive the fractal that made it act like a culture, cult, ultimatum. We blame our attitudes on the jacked up cubism of the role playing. Let's all just admit to being children and then never buckle under the duties of the persona again.  Clay is so beautiful, he roams in us all, he calls the mirror, mama, mama, mama, the mere idea of this man in a suit always reproducing his mother is at the root, the glad godded root, of our every perverted and beautiful municipality. Here he wants to say something universal like, what if I bruise my trophy on the way to the ghost, what if all this spirit becomes visible and I quit my job, run out on my demons , and look too far into things like I was in Angola or Senegal again, clairvoyant again, what if I'm the dandy I mention scatologically and act like I don't understand and what if my hypocrisy is all just panic, when all I want is to dance naked so far away from the plan that I become the only plan and own some land and harvest that land and what then. The quicksand in a frenzy of deliberate longing became heroic for Adam and Eve in the city. We get drunk on bleeding apples and long for some other spring and even our hope is lazy and domesticated. Will Clay survive his self-awareness as our empire eases into a casual fascism. Anyhow, I wish I knew who the boss was I would tell him who the boss was wishing I was when he was was wishing I was him. Clay puts it simply, how to stay black in a white idea.