Eyeless in Tabula Rasa

A monocle in the 1970s was as prideful as a pince nez. Today we wear neoliberal coke bottle-bottom horn rims. . .

These ideas are drawn from a particularly short-sighted cilia’s lamentations entitled: Perky Monoliths and Other Deceptive Codpieces, which radically reshape our units of perception by oilskinned feet and acorned meters. I argue that VISION—especially inner-mind vision is both an artistic forte and also the seat of nascent oboe skronk and aleatory stress—and that filial-cilial moment emerged as a consignment of periwinkle-specific aphids.

The decorators (exterior types) saw a rapidly expanding sexy-eel consort marinade as a new obsession. Ascetics they ain’t! Among them lived felons, peso-pushers, and a variety of malcontents intent on mandrake visions. (Banish me! before I speak again—before I make sense!)

To make scents: I smell a distinct artistic foul and the accomplishment of nothing (in spades!) emergent from a peroration of desperation . . . Waiter! Check please!

Apostolic apostrophes for after-dinner drinkage / Oblations about the legibility of affective labor in the birthing rooms. Here are the assessments of the granulations upon the spindle-bearer’s back / Ablutions and absolutions of contortionist social prodigies bearing their brands as sexual appendages.

What! I say: What! are we doing here? I ain’t nobody’s blank slate.

What I’m Reading:

I closed the huge doors behind me and walked softly towards the altar. I was in the opium of the people. The huge cross dangled from chains fixed to the roof. I stood looking at the crucified Christ. He looked like He needed a stiff drink . . . He looked like I felt.

— Dambudzo Marechera / Black Sunlight