It’s my dream / Well it scares me!
Would you, could you, please, at least write 100 words as a draftee peasant to your rest-home workshop. Stretch your lenses out so they penetrate the air— the airships that pour out of you overtaking you & your apotheosis—your bullock neighborhood trade stay-at-home courtesan contraption—plateau & spread out through the urge and endless slime of creativity sparked by the single piston of plummage at the center of your quill. Quail in chestfuls of crusted & crestfallen tormentors—budgies out for the values of aphid genealogies of your right plugholes. Something plugging something puggish & streaming this way comes galactic fuzz. Buzz of outburst. Muzz of metallic streaks shearing untethered in howling skronk of empathic northward-facing missiles. Please be appalled by my lettering, please be appalled by my words. Please be appalled by these hundreds of workshops. Please try this at home.
What I’m Reading:
“I shall now by means of my profound rational processes find the explanation for my madness, and human socially unacceptable behaviour.”
— Kathy Acker / Empire of the Senseless