"The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine", wrote the French Surrealists almost 100 years ago, and from this missive stems the parlor game in which we partake here. Through obscuring the tower itself, they cobble together meandering staircases in which to ascend with absent-minded haste; spontaneous line-weaving amasses figures and phrases into new planes of thought, therefore holding captive the illusion of creative reciprocity. Although housed in unrecognizable quarters, dull rain now tallies itself upon your window panes just as it once kept count on theirs. Apparitions unknown sound instruments of winding origin in celebration of the ink dry in the well. A graffito of tea leaves stains the porcelain cup.
This cloven tall-tale traces an epistolary journey between id and consciousness upon a page that has been adorned and wiped clean again and again and again. The wet meadow expands and contracts within a breath, moving through the windpipe to expel upon the glistening dew. From this dew rises anthills of diminishing complexity, and busying themselves within insanity, the occupants labor to hold fast against the unseen wave of oblivion.
An exercise in aleatoric sentence-finishing between two aligned performers, The Exquisite Corpse Shall Drink the New Wine mimics the economics of unconscious beauty-making to such a degree that light will neither pass through it nor divert its path. Draw upon it what you will, and ready yourself for the unrelenting ataraxy.
The job’s oxo.