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V dances free of thought & with one thought that collects his body into points, his movements into possible bodies. En pointe & jumps of springbok. This is a dancer at the height of his fame. & this is a dance when he stops still. & now gentlemen. Ladies. This little horsie has had enough. Curtsey curtsey curtsey. Off & he runs off exit. The only other time that V danced after that was when he passed a group of street musicians, jumped like a flying fish.

A curious examiner cuts V’s feet open after V dies. Where did the dancer get his dance? But V’s dance was not there in V’s feet. Maybe yes, but nowhere to be seen. Or it had left his feet when he had stopped dancing. In the way that V stopped speaking after he had stopped dancing. A white voice declares him schizomatic, a white coat medicates him the schizodrugs. These schizodrugs that make V swagger to walk. Entangled he remains within the single sentence of his dance. V dangles & clumsily looms over the rolling white slightly speckled linoleum floor.

The more he stops dancing the deeper the fragments’ creases of his body; the more pressed become the folds, his body. The examiner slices into V’s feet; precisely. Once. & once. The body has suffered defeat. V is wearing rags & feathers. If he had been wearing a magnificent costume he would have looked like a sad, disjointed clown. Or a puppet with disarticulated arms & legs & neck, to be imminently animated. Pulled at from simultaneous collapsible directions. The knife clatters with the autopsy table. One clean incision in the sole of each foot from big toe to where the heel begins. When he is done & quiet, the examiner leaves open each bloodless gash; with love & gentle stroke / barely tickle.


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