THE BODIES IN ART READER (original) (raw)

With FG I hadn"t made love. He had no ass, he gave no part of his piece and, on the one occasion he did, he didn"t take the Professor"s the right way. FG was discharged of all services he may have rendered the tottering temple of FKfucked knowledgeand, like the wrapping of the cheese, was thrown into the fucking street. FG was a strand of hair that stood through the comb. He proved himself too much for the pontiffs to handle. He spinned (sic) poetry on a wheel, threw theater on the stage, quoted lengthy passages and dropped on Cartesian academics real philosophy. When he flushed his toilet it made a noise. Like his other contemporaries, FG didn"t carry books around. He kept them on shelves and on the side of his desk where he worked. Through curtains of cigarette smoke he watched the emptied glasses take shape. FG always had beautiful, clean feet. He used them to step on pointed toes. Like an island from a departing ship, as he disappeared into the world, the pontiffs went back to sleep.