It is but one organ among many
The ego is the speaking organ.
It says I, but that's not me.
It names and recognizes all
while misrecognizing it's limit.

It is but one organ among many
detached from the depth of self
always an-other, already frustrated.
It is detached from the very feeling
which it's enthroned to organize.

The ego is the seat of the libido,
taken from us and put into signs.

Drifting on the surface of language
lamenting how terrifying its depths have
become in the afterlife of Adam's paradise.
Eden: where Name and Thing walk at all
times holding hands in blissful simultaneity.

From the Fall, we've been barred from
our sight of categories the eye for all.

Attempting to explore the depths of
embodiment by conjuring ever-more
valences, ever-specialized vocabulary.
I conjure them up and itself away from
the core: was it there before it was lost?

Use a language to express what is I
but this language is a gift older than I
and will far outlive the intentions of I
It is what is other in I, the resenting I
with taken-away center placed at the end.

I cannot be the final word of social being.
The final word of social being is happiness.

To the lack of imagination, unhappy consciousness,
all is vanity, all is metaphor, all is not.
All is lost, and its shadow writhes metonymically.
All objects come to decenter and decay the I
because object(ivity) is a function of language.

I fall feet-first into language, in search of the object.
Its chains and labyrinths captivate me in desire, yet
I am disenchanted by a lack of imaginary unity.
Even if the words we describe ourselves are given blood,
they never truly become our body simply a plural I.

But if I were to try leaving the word in object's search?
If I were to protest the mechanism which puts All behind
a bar, at a remove in the very act of naming and totalizing?
Such a tantrum takes I even further away from subject (and) matter.
I leave language for the object, and become a total object: a corpse.

Outside of language is no paradise there is only a body less unified.
Extreme situations push us there. It is our blood-curdling screams and cries.
To signifying an outside of signs is to put a shackling name on laughter.
Speaking without meaning does not draw us closer to paradisiac language.
Such speech is but a further fracture into maddening and babbling tongues.

Negative spaces are all I know, since I am an-other. But these spaces
are given they signify us arbitrarily. All We want is forever elsewhere.

We want ourselves towards somewhere where pain is no longer useful.
Where the spaces between us still feel full. Somewhere abandoned
By god up to freedom and the good faith of each other. All we want came
from what we can't say whether because we lacked the courage or
the language, or because it was better left unsaid and off the colony's altar.

All we want came from what we can't say, because it's is guided by the same
impulse of Naming which has ruined every object in advance. Yet we want.

What was said is terror.
What is meant is hope.
What will be is liberation.