Fragments spun from flower petals, stylus nibs, pencil shavings

Bits and pieces and a poem (but not that kind of poem) with French in it about furniture (but not that kind of furniture)

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Faire partie des meubles is to become part of the furniture.

Le pilier de bar is the bar patron who never leaves, who drinks and drinks until the staff pour concrete down the man's spine (it's almost always a man) and cast a pillar around his drinking arm to hold up the bar, the building, the world itself.

Some people become chairs, tables, even the kitchen sink. 
Some of us become beds. 
Some beds, like medical beds, are more animate than some of us.

The bones exit the body like worms from wet soil and assemble themselves like Demon-possessed IKEA kits. 

We are all inanimate objects in the making. Every last one of us destined to become the structure upon which the living build all their beautiful and terrible things. 

Que demande le peuple ? 

What does it want to eat? 
What needs, what wants that are not my needs, my wants? 
What language does it speak?

The bed speaks timid or bitter or in soft chuckles, depending on circumstance, but always speaks fatigue. 

It speaks morphine with the fluency of the God it was named after. I have never seen a bed look so tired and yet so sarcastic about it all because whether animate or not there is no rest for the wicked and even less for the pure of heart. 

No rest for the load-bearing structures that hold us aloft that we may dance to the music that escapes their hollow casings. 

If not rest, that we may find warmth upon their broad backs.

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And we democratized the arts
and taught everyone to market
like the best mad-men on the market
until everything had to be so compelling 
that nothing was anymore.
Not the news. Not the climate.
Not even the power of Christ.

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