Olchar Lindsann is a floating signifier tied by a string to the wrist of a young child. This young child has been hoisted (rather rudely) into the air, where he looks around him with a heady and ultimately useless mixture of exhileration and terror. This is how he knows he is a poet and an artist. The walls of the cavern tremble whenever they hear human voices; the membranes of rock vibrate minutely, and if one happens to have a stethoscope in the rear left-hand pocket of one's coat, one can listen to these vibrations (which are, needless to say, the voices of various gods- Maldoror, Mr. Antipyrine, Bosse-de-Nage, Alastor, and Grabinoulor, to name only a few) and one can draw one's own conclusions therefrom.Post-NeoAbsurdism is a kind of viscious prank pulled by cunning tribes of cannibalistic artists at the expense of the nobilty who live on wine and small pieces of cheese in their marble palaces marked: MUSEUM, GALLERY, or PUBLISHING HOUSE; which (while perfectly fitted for this domestic function, especially the latter, as the name suggests) double as places where great art is hung on a golden gibbet to squirm and die. Post-NeoAbsurdists, thirsty for the veins of sheep, often roam about the peripheries of these temples to the great Commerce-Gods, picking off the chosen if they stray too far from the vigilant eyes of their dealers, agents, and pimps.Olchar Lindsann has sharp teeth which grow inside his brain. He has an agile tongue which seethes with hatred for the financial chains of logic and good sense. Nonetheless he is, as I can assure you (dangling here between the earth and the sky as I am) quite charming, and if you happen to be a word, his throat especially is the paradigm of hospitality; his epiglottis might even, perhaps, be seductive.
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