.
.
Fair to comment: when Obsessa
speaks,
she wreaks havoc, but enticingly – replete
with internecine wars as if of church
and state that correlate with nothing
you
have ever heard nor are ever likely
to hear,
except from her. Slavering over intimacies
–
she savors their finer points, impenetrabilities:
today evinced in two tense thugs wed
to each
other, awkward at an outdoor table
at
a kindred conundrum, an East Village
diner –
whose inexplicabilities, despite the
hollow
pretense of Obsessa’s pleas to help resolve
them – pique you and delight her:
indeed
.
incite her to pile on in lavish
detail more
reams of complicated mises-en-scène
and stark untenabilities to rattle
every
premise you’d not known you’d
harbored:
as if you were a groggy sentient
sailboat
tediously ever-in-the act-of-coming-to
from sailboat stupor to find out, anew,
your reflexive You-Boat turned to
starboard when it should have turned
to port. Obsessa does get on one’s
nerves,
but by surveying the display of volupté
in her inimitable moral culs-de-sac
and
shaky logic, we see she cannily refurbishes
.
the very room in which you notice
them,
front and back: suddenly and thuddingly
you trip into an alternate insanity:
new
visions of the meanings of quite
everything
around you. Curtains, chairs, framed
photos,
what Obsessa wears, sky and city
views
outside the windows utterly rewrite
the news and now you’re floating in
a cosmos you don’t know a thing
about,
but one far more egregiously
ridiculously
interesting, alluring and insane
than any
you yourself had ever had the balls
to dream.
Now you are the center of its scheme!
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