Two apologies walked into a bar
one said
“Sorry, I’m high.”
other said
“Hi, I’m sorry.”
WELL THAT’S ONE WAY TO BEGIN A STORY . . .
A tale untold a thread unspooled as-yet unread perhaps to be unreadable.
Irresolvable.
Unwanted output.
The blackened pages of plagiarists.
Cheap soot.
Expelled from chimneys.
Droppings.
Drip.
Droop.
Dung.
Dimly.
Too much said and too little done.
Opened the book to Chapter 11.
Signal intent.
Eyes glint.
Godforce aching.
“For although like you I could be a spokesman denying rumours from below that predefer to be stifled till the return of the repressed prodigal, I could also be a streetsweeper cleaning up the unmanuring dung dropped from above, which will have to be collected up and sorted out and recycled maybe into serviceable goods, as in psychoanalysis, a genie from a plastic bottle. When the magic cycle of genuine shit will have been replaced by the chemicycle of pure electronic thought ever expanding, more and more unbiodegradable, the heart of the earth will stop, shrivel to a curled up foetus to be ejected lifeless and wither to a moon without even the attracting planet to encircle except the distant sungod dead because unseen unfelt by anyone.”
— Christine Brooke-Rose
Just-opposed.
Sested over.
Oppressive air.
Pesterous buzzing.
Persistent breezes.
Stubborn and Southern.
Conquistador pests.
Illegible lechery.
You wanted something sawn.
Asked to be shone a burning city.
Mercy, mercy.
Fire’s pity.
Lit.
Increasing erraticity.
Ennex eccentricity.
New words emerge again.
Leaping electricity.
Like the tide unyielding.
Like,
Like:
“Go ahead and try and stop me motherfucker,”
The Moon is My Boss,
(Your Boon is My Bane)
Earth’s Just My Base,
(Your Daylight’s Nightshade)
We’re Not Simmily,
(Lacrimose Shame)
I Don’t Like You—
(What in Rose Name?)
Fuck Out My Face.
Sail a V.
For victory.
Hail paragon.
Heil history.
Listen bitch.
I don’t answer to erewhon.
Not jest anyone.
Foundabout?
Fuckaround?
May field an impression.
Yeah, keep asking questions.
[missing section]
. . . GODFORCE ACHING . . .
realized by
JAMES QUENTIN DEVINE
mundus vult decipi
Quench your obsessions.
Hell bellow.
Hunching.
We’ve all gone gruncheon.
Haber bosh and shorn bush.
Bore-logs and topped tush.
Habermas and rung hooks.
Crown height.
July.
Turn tight.
Right?
Right.
But you got the wrong looks.
Ingroups prefer.
Unhinged outlooks.
Escaped ambulances.
Drag skeleton cruises.
Life’s a carnival.
You’re expected to lose.
So take the loss.
This house is rigged to win.
Get lost.
Vices tightening.
Listen, kid.
Corona.
Victoria.
Blue-and-red lightning.
Now you’re stuffed in the back of the car.
With the spit-guard.
Smeared grease between you and police.
A slammed door.
“Watch your feet.”
Cinched wrists in steel reprieve.
They stole your wallet.
Beggars belief.
You got no ID and you’re headed for the desert.
No account.
Your scales have been measured.
These Aren’t Even Real Cops, Dude.
What the fuck did you do?
Who in the hell do you owe money to?
Shit.
Well,
SCALED ALPS’ ‘Let the Alpine Play’ is out 5.22.26 . . .
Hear it now, advanced user:
↓
Go there.
→
ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ
→ bluehell.neocities.org ←
ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ
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