I don’t want to say the sayable. The sayable will always be
defiantly abrading, stalking us, forcing us to speak
in allegories.
I’m in no particular societal class; I’m like a model railway train
that puffs along with insect-speed, in the way that certain
baseball players take all of the time in the world when they
come up to the plate after their walk-up music gets an arousal
out of the audience, before the Rally-Snack takes hold.
He said that the best career move as an artist is to die.
My Early Mornings are Late Days to most, & the secret to a
Gorgeous Face is, they say, the Eyebrows.
Imagine my surprise when I truly did seek a way to reverse
Kertészian “emotional atrophying”
& my youth is still pretty; or, a pretty mess,
just like how my Poetics are wind-mill dancing; or,
wrapped in pretzel crust. Crust of sleep, post-midnight.
Who wants to be my new friend? I’m tired of being lead on—
it feels so vulgar. Truce-breakers are a sign of the coming
world order (laughs)—what is a friend but a
Universal Network Language of banal pretending?
I could simplify it all: anti-hero is what some ingenuous souls
want to become while their infantilismic orthodoxy
is a kind of illusory bourgeois, smoke-in-the-eyes, clouded sight,
ruined milk poured into an open grave.
defiantly abrading, stalking us, forcing us to speak
in allegories.
I’m in no particular societal class; I’m like a model railway train
that puffs along with insect-speed, in the way that certain
baseball players take all of the time in the world when they
come up to the plate after their walk-up music gets an arousal
out of the audience, before the Rally-Snack takes hold.
He said that the best career move as an artist is to die.
My Early Mornings are Late Days to most, & the secret to a
Gorgeous Face is, they say, the Eyebrows.
Imagine my surprise when I truly did seek a way to reverse
Kertészian “emotional atrophying”
& my youth is still pretty; or, a pretty mess,
just like how my Poetics are wind-mill dancing; or,
wrapped in pretzel crust. Crust of sleep, post-midnight.
Who wants to be my new friend? I’m tired of being lead on—
it feels so vulgar. Truce-breakers are a sign of the coming
world order (laughs)—what is a friend but a
Universal Network Language of banal pretending?
I could simplify it all: anti-hero is what some ingenuous souls
want to become while their infantilismic orthodoxy
is a kind of illusory bourgeois, smoke-in-the-eyes, clouded sight,
ruined milk poured into an open grave.
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