Janus Faced Poetaster

In preparing for being deemed expendable the Janus Faced poetaster reengaged with thee heart palpitations that had remained unfinishable in stymie style yogi times—floating in and out of consonants. 

The taloned ass called these “dust burnished ideas.” You find it hard to rest your mind—which you absently left at home. Palpitations. Heart. You shade your corpse. A sty to be continuously refingered. The sky full of long squawking breeders. In between them—cerulean redactions of love. Clouds buoyant as a retraction—but much has changed in the wren during the long gestation. 

This Felled Corroded Apparatus asks us what medicament is available? What solace? What can we assemble from these ruins? If we are impersonators and we assemble a guarantor. . . is this not unresolvable?

What I’m Reading:

If you cannot love the ugliness that comes from within you, then you cannot make art. If you go into the deepest, most base feeling inside yourself, which is the fundamental feeling that doesn’t change, then you can start writing and continue writing from there, for that is the feeling that is most fundamentally you, which maybe most calls upon to be expressed. If you hold fiercely to your vision, you will be protected. 

— Sheila Heti / Alphabetical Diaries