He eats to become more.  He eats the heads of those he admires; he eats the heads of the state whom he feels to be most corrupt.

Brutus, eating, becomes more every day.  He transcends his former shape – becoming fatter!  Fatter is a kind of more, as well.He has shaped his spirit with trembling hands, flagging it till it becomes harder, tougher, more erect.

Brutus does not know the difference between his mind and his body, but he can guess.  Still, he upends his cock, pushes his belly to evolve forward, shits out the crap of his day.

Fig. 2

He is a materialist, the purest kind: a cannibal.  Fucking and eating are the same to him; losing and shitting are the same to him.  He wins, sometimes – he manages to suck the marrow out of bones.

He will take every loss and he will repair it – he will put something in place of something else.  When somebody gives him a mean glance, he eats a beautiful crossaint.  He casts his feces in bronze, throws it in the faces of his enemies.

He does not know the difference between fucking and eating – he eats the pussy he will fuck, he eats his babies if they overcrowd his cage.  He bites – his penis has a bone spur in it, like a bird.

In Russia, where he lives, the people eat their leaders, and the leaders eat the people.  It’s how they keep track of things.  Then they burn the bones in a barrel.

Fig. 2

Many birds come to see him; they love him for how much he shits, because the shit feeds the grass, and the grass feeds the worms (somehow), and the birds love a fat worm of an evening.

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