agent of misfortune…


I walk in circles gyring — elevating ever outward until I’m circumnavigating your boundless denigration.

Deliver me — enervated — from invigoration as you deliver me from hating myself long enough to despise you.

I’ve placed myself at this longitude so that I may be bisected by your latitude of lassitude.

I’ve misplaced the keys to hegemonic misericordia.

Mercy be done because I haven’t any time left.

Deliver me again from prepositional entanglements and toothsome fricatives.

Yes yes leave my words alone.

Plangent. Agent. Of misfortune.

“An artist is a creature driven by demons. He don’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why. He is completely amoral in that he will rob, borrow, beg, or steal from anybody and everybody to get the work done.”

— William Faulkner

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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