Sentence

Ain’t nothing more beautiful than a French diplomat in an Italian suit discussing the intimate ties between poetry and constipation with a United States Senator in a discount blazer from the Men’s Wearhouse bought especially for the occasion of proposing the Anti-Chimera Act, a prime indicator that if children were once the future, they are not the past, which is growing hairier every moment, so as to keep us from penetrating its insides, which we must nibble on as if nibbling on donuts, by which I mean rubrics, glittering rubrics in the dry heat of an empty test bank full of raccoons with flexible snouts and long tails that materialize in the shrubbery as thick-set stocky fraternity brothers suicide bomb colleges full of free thinking mavericks with tuning forks in their ears and rubber dicks in their pockets, a veritable cure for loneliness and its side effects, including the desire to fantasize about mythological genitalia in the pants of pundits who declare that to be alive is fundamentally okay as long as poets test their verses on guinea pigs before submitting them to us humans as we exit the amalgamated marshland of surplus value and enter an ordinary evening on which ordinary people dream of lubricated condoms for dogs, of mules who practice the pull-out method, of birth control pills for cats, of floating trousers that haunt city squares in search of red-walled boutiques where silk stockings and boot-cut chinos fight for the attention of disembodied legs while merchants masturbate, aroused by visions of painless castration, aroused by hands without arms scribbling conjunctions into dusty ceilings, aroused by hands without arms stirring infinite bowls of soup, aroused by module-makers who insist only on the metaphorical value of money as represented in the hieroglyphics painted on the walls of financiers who accumulate capital through the unjustified sexual behavior of adulterous women who appear asymmetrically—legs over heads, hands coming out of butts—in public ceremonies in which syringes suck out erroneous feelings from their bodies while suits and ties stuff bones and ears into decorative bottles and jars.