Selling Our

human-ities

At the sub-atomic our relevance is not questionable for we are the question-beggars, scrounging at the verges of the statistical where the numbers have become what they were before they were counted, beggarly constructs, vapidities, in a world from which all values are retreated, our testimonies at the testimonial time of human living, still living, this what, is the only testimony left, the plea for our indeterminate something, which becomes a plea for all selves, the non-benighted, our last patrons will heed us as we count the figurations of our variations on a theme, our protected enclave is not an enclave but the universe of our projections, craftily organised to appear both universally profound and benign, fear us below not, we are nothing to fear but the loss of us, fear it, all of it, the entire lot our lot, all nouns denoting objects to be frighted and nameless, where will they go, to the scientists, the highfalutin illiterates, those who do not ask what it means do after all say they know what it means to be a something, and so be of the order of the anti-human, the human feast-maker, without knowing, they would never use the apposite words, from the Latin word meaning what-maker, nor ask what it means to be a parasite selling a fancy, for we shall rock nothing as we come crawling for more of it, we say none of it, nor can they presume to know what it means, naturally, we fine analogues of analogy makers in the books where, and our violences seem stilled, we cannot be the Fash, look everywhere see the Fash, but here, we cannot be nor defeat, not even the defeatable can be had by our specialist touch, or suchlike, and that is why we are not, in our weakness, whilst we are but we are the profound, no less, and we are the near gone, after which not even the lamenters will reach for the right summation of our absence.