keys, and he writes a sentence spraying his piss across the machine.

The coprovocateur makes an ice sculpture of frozen piss. “The Venus de Milo in pee.”

Pyramidal pile of shit in a vitrine. The careful observer can see toenails in it. Title of this objet d’art: What the Foot Fetish Hath Wrought.

The sad old coprovocateur. “I’ve tried it all,” he says. “I’ve made my shit different colors. I’ve experimented with different consistencies. I’ve eaten it, kissed it, fucked it, thrown it off the Empire State Building. I just can’t get excited about it anymore. It doesn’t disgust me. It doesn’t excite me. It’s valueless, neutral, nothing special. It’s just shit. Of course I’m telling the truth.”

Coprovocateurs develop a private, tribal language to communicate with each other – Fecalese. They have a refined linguistic capacity based on farting. “I could translate the very Gospel into a work you can’t stand the smell of.”

The need for a secret language, for passwords, is inseparable from the need to excrete. Ultimately, any sign or word is susceptible to being converted into something else, even into its opposite.

The sad old coprovocateur. “I’ve tried it all,” he says. “I’ve made my shit different colors. I’ve experimented with different consistencies. I’ve eaten it, kissed it, fucked it, thrown it off the Empire State Building.

Two coprovocateurs give themselves enemas with cans of compressed air. Afterward they rub Carmex on their chapped holes.

The coprovocateur pulverizes old computer equipment into tiny pieces, mixes it with dung to make a paste of silicon, plastic, metal, excrement. Then he uses this paste to make adobe huts for copro kids to live in.

The coprovocateur uses a broken computer monitor as a toilet. He sits on the screen and shits in the casing.

The coprovocateur pulls the keys off scrap keyboards, mixes them with barrels of elephant dung, then spreads them over a garden as compost. It breeds beautiful flowers of fantastic color, alongside which you can make out random scraps of language, meaning­less but fertilizing. He publishes

the results in a limited edition called Po(o)etry.

Two coprovocateurs take laxatives and cart their rock-climbing gear to Times Square. They scale advertising platforms and sluice diarrhea over neon signs. In the night air their shit blinks, phosphorescent red excrement in the black sky over Manhattan. They fuck each other with neon tubes and ejaculate in glowing shit that spells out The Gap.

The coprovocateur shits on a white board and shapes the turds into Fortune 500 logos.

Shitting is the natural response to the society of abundance.

“We are no longer interested in the celebrity sex tape. The shame of the future is the celebrity crap tape. We have tapes of celebutantes shitting, recorded directly from concealed potty cams.” The vogue for celebrity crap tapes gives rise to a thriving black market in doodoo knock-offs, fecal forgeries, fake excremental memor­abilia. Third-rate celebs strapped for cash sell their turds online.

Performance art. The coprovocateur takes a large sheet of paper, shits on it,

Two coprovocateurs take laxatives and cart their rock-climbing gear to Times Square. They scale advertising platforms and sluice diarrhea over neon signs. In the night air their shit blinks, phosphorescent red excrement in the black sky over Manhattan.

smears the shit into a thin opaque layer. With a finger he writes in the shit: Beauty.

Three goons catch the coprovocateur loitering outside a portable toilet. They pistol-whip him and take him behind the garbage dump. “What were you doing there, punk? Rigging the shitter?” …
“I wasn’t doing anything.” … “He wasn’t doing anything.” … They knock him to the ground. “I’d piss on you but you’d like it.” The goons kick him and the coprovocateur sputters, “Poesis.”

The keys become nipples. As I type,
I massage them with my fingers. Mother’s milk leaks out. I touch my fingers to my lips. I touch my lips to
the keyboard. I drink. SDk

234
235