If I had to tell you another real story about Sarah Ferguson, I would have to start like this:
Sarah Ferguson sat down to eat between Flower and Jesus.
Flower had prepared corn boiled with beans.
Jesus was hungry.
So hungry that the mere idea of eating produced statism and static in Jesus.
Statism because his whole body was controlled by the the simple idea of eating.
Static because the simple idea of eating could not let his body move.
Sarah Ferguson found that a state producing static in its citizens would be interesting if it were regulated by the chance of the dice.
As well as regulating every day bureaucratic mechanics by the chance of the dice.
The citizens would become addicted.
They would become addicted to the game, but it would be a static game. The addiction would be static, it would not consist in the massive consumption of ecstatic movement but in the impossibility of wishing.
Addiction would be rest.
Sarah Ferguson tattooed on her chest three green dots, and a sword in each of her deltoids. The green dots work as energetic points from where she can shoot, the swords are energetic points for protection. Or maybe it’s the other way, the swords are for attacking and the green points for defending. From what proto-dark stimuli and energies Sarah Ferguson wants to defend herself? Or if she has the opportunity attack? Attack with rays as green as fire while the swords are nailed in the depths of the sea.
AH, the sea.
Sarah Ferguson plays with the sand, make mounds with wet sand on her belly button, rolls on the shore, swallows and spits salty water, throws stones up, runs against the waves until she stumbles, begins to dissect the algae and tighten them to form a doll and teaches it to talk and sing, and at night they sleep inside the lighthouse and cook pasta, but pasta is too heavy at night, so now at night they eat vegetables.
If I had to tell you the end of Sarah Ferguson, I would have to start like this:
Sarah Ferguson thinks:
Hives boiling between our zodiac briefs you are a tangle of objects that are woven between birch roses and butterflies flying and jumping between nine prairies seven types ninety-eight categorizations and nine hundred empathies defecated among networks of sailors who toasted their skins upstairs pissing jumping taking each other by their elbows the yellow sense of the most insipid effervescence that corrodes the soul and deceives with words of great cultural and patriotic content to all this swarm of pseudo parasites toad poling between the holes of a bicycle’s tyre burst down by whip by you already know very well who and also holes many holes here and there holes to and fro having to be occupied as my friend said we must cover the holes the lantern bleeds light spills its beam on the furious and extinguished face of the star having mercy the majority went to look near the forest found a few branches from where we made green fire greener than green color in three-d weaving the ruddy flames that hit the door exerting their bloody excitement and force us to celebrate the moment of union as if speaking could be human and not the nefarious being that we are when we paint our lives with mediocrity and excuses until the bottom of the abyss going through the feet of Jesus with a birch rod, beating him until squeezing his juice, spraying the pollen of Flower before the battle.
Pedro Riva