Thursday, March 14, 2013

1 , 2, 3, 4...


Write a line.
 Delete it.

 Write a different line.
  Delete it.

 The noise of unresolved thinking sounds like an object sinking fast, singing fat static.

Do this.
Do that.

Dude, I can't bring myself to align my neuroses with yours.

Bent notes and barre chords.  A nice char on that over which we hover.

The air is a thick sucking wick.

Care for the Self is a fucking kaleidoscope.

Dare to read things into things.


Write a line.
Intervene in it.

Write a different line.
Intervene in that.

The joys of text uncouple jouissance from the special sauce of semblance.

Do this
or that
(for me).

Dear, I can't sing to save myself.
"I can't sing to save myself" is a funny name.
Where's the rest of the letter.

But except in the context of recognizing things out of context--
a food service worker out of uniform sighted outside of the restaurant, say--
I'm at a loss.

The Hero is a thick, sulking hulk.

Care for Others is ordered by Authors.

Dare to read words and objects together.


This follows that.
That follows this.

I’m not
following you.

The choice of sex redoubles the chance of finding a remote under sofa cushions.

Do something
to me from afar.

Do we
resemble something
we don’t know?

Duration isn’t stable.

Many centuries passed before the invention of Zero.

Race toward noise.

Read to erase the _____.


Over here.
Over there.

Are you one?

Am I
a placeholder?

Duotone raveling
of sonic textures.

Do or
don’t order
donut holes.

Do hallucinations objectify their hallucinators or do they hallucinate them?

A century of manipedis parsed.

Read toward noise.

Our race is to erasure.


  1. "S(tr)ing The 'or y'"

    "I cannot save tossing, myself."
    "I can sever the severity."
    "I can save to sing myself."