March 31, 2002 :: The Erroneous Merging of Two Texts

note: the following is (almost) entirely made up of quotes stolen from both the famous and the not so famous. i take credit only for the shape which i have forced upon them. a big thank you goes out to everyone who has ever been brilliant enough to inspire even the most nonsensical word pairs.

It makes them God’s, this heavily populated poetry, birthing verbal bridges, raining metaphor and switch-words. It makes them megalomaniacs nursing Napolean complexes. They like words. They get drunk on language, and fall through linguistic quicksand. Scarred by Ockhams razor, from symbolic distances, they watch how people live when things are “real,” unreeling like natural film events. They eat human scones with raisins and a piece of coffee.

Those writin’ fools, those dyslexic proofreaders carry crumbs of knowledge, treat speech like murder and win psuedo-pod peabody awards. Their oral entertainment makes way for cancelled poetry television and anti-poetry computer devices. They teach me I don’t know what I know, that their art is better than my art, when this is not art. This is my life. Alas, I am stuck with me.

When writing girls like game meat’s gotten old, when belly’s boring and breasts too. Turn to, chicks, loudly American, dragging colonial pasts like emotional aftermath, wanting to be daddy boys, wanting to be women who fuck like boys, shouting, “are there any Gloria Steinem’s in the room?” while piecemeal masculine protests went out of style with his hitherto’s. Turn to women, suffering from casual disregard at a vulnerable moment, breaking out with “I broke up with my ex boyfriend fuck you I’m gonna dye my hair” complexes, developing psuedo-sciences to study the omnipitence of ovaries doing triple axles and shit.

Women, don’t breathe so hard, if anatomy is destiny, we will renounce object ties through several moral shades of ritual bleeding, instead of wasting dead wishes on a single hurt color.