Contacted by a published poet I did not find this amusing. "No puppy, no" was the dumbest thing to fall from these fingers. Your fingers bleeding the lies of anything you peddle quickly. How could anyone with a filled head understand that poem was corrupt of walls that hold the quickest flashes of light? Why people feel the need to contact me, I will never understand. No acclaims and go fuck yourself into next year bang my walls of words on your creepy vines of manufactured glory cos you need a ticket for your 'E' ride. I have never witnessed such shitty erotica in my life enough to squeeze the dick dead. The lifeless cum of a sailor man hopped up on a circle jerk.
To think this is what makes a world of poetry go round is about as dead as taxes that feed the cunts of bleeding blondes at a NYC dinner party. I am not here to justify my practice of weird head vanity bent from images that stream the line towing totems. I think writing after all is some bad excuse to present yourself to the world as another mask of sorts. There is no equation to writing really. It's script without the infinite edge. It's contained because all language is. It will never be iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinfinite. Language dies all the time. Some words resuscitated, like "cray".....a very 80's word depending on the clan you sprang from. So it's back in fashion doesn't have to be from the same intent but none the less, funny.
As if words came from a magical hemisphere, it's all a very slow update. Software updates faster than the average word, no wonder we're behind. It's a big mind fuckery of code and no one is willing to jump timelines because we're caged. But there are the few who will look to the future not for removal of soul but to bend the minds to search deep into abyss of existence here and beyond. Because we can make this shit real here on Earth.
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