inert dull copy

The guy who sits up all night behind a typewriter is odd but mostly harmless. he is smashing out what he thought would become the new literature. Oh yes, into the mind of the reader he delves, the non-authors, he carves out an obscure library of illiterate verbs and a lexicon of miscomprehension. He lures the entries with a broad smile and each time the page turns there is another between the teeth. He hides from no one in the back room of sablon. There he gets a little sun and all the noise falling in from the apartments above. A real underground listening post. He has a quick escape and he need not go far for chocolate. He ties day after day together in the middle of the city. The neighbors either put up with the rattle or say something. They write it off as inner city rats. They grow to such a size. He imagines the aubergine walking up to the cage and jostling through the weekend traffic into the market below. He cannot be certain that when he stands to walk out of here that he will still have two legs. His circulation is cut off at the fingers. In his short time zone of a lifetime he knows he will never get the hang of the tippity tap. He will never get his fingers round something that is very much in the beta delta stage, but he cannot take it outside into the light. Out there is research by brainwash. It is of no use. He goes over it one more time, but there is nothing to go over. The new literature is sitting stupid in pants. He spends no time thinking about it. He steals everything; the content, the image, the style, the psychology. Locked up in the sablon room dog of no mad mess of a sun cannot last. He brings up milk and honey. He is just another little part of the programming. Everything eats grass or each other. Sometimes in the morning there is five minutes of calm where he gets a hold of a warm feeling inside that is both crisp and fluid.

i am looking for someone to drink with.
oh a drinking partner.
yeh, with none of that odd stuff. god it all went belly up last time.
go to the bar with the professor. then you will be able to learn shit.
i would like to know where your local watering hole is, so i can avoid it.
if you do not know then you're not a local.
can you forget the kettle for a moment, can you put the child down, can you let loose and dance, come dance with me?
you know i only dance around a large fire to the sound of drums and a melody. somewhere i can consume toxins and lose myself in a sea of judaic time.
i am out of ideas.
pass me a beer.
i am still trying out the beers. i don't think we make a nice here. so i drink whiskey.
gin is a possibility, think bombay as nothing less than entry level.
don't talk to me about entry level. there is snobbishness in misplaced taste.
my kind would be happy to know that you think about me now and then in this frenzy.
here is a little splash of dillenger's blood on cotton cloth. courage and brains, sure you got them, but right now you need grace. i am out of the dumbo stage, can fly without it. let me get you something to drink. now, what do we have here?
something to eat?
the night is young.
where the hell are we and how far have we to go?

encyclopedias are the great stories, the old stories, the stories people believe in.
are you writing non-fiction?
oh shit man, do not even get me started. where are you prepared to lay the gambit on fact and fiction?
well can your story be correlated?
holy shit, nah, i was the only one sitting in a god-like glory from a fart of existence. don't piss on my fire. do you see what it is i am constructing here, what i am repeating over and over again and again, what i am deepening myself with in this little confessional that is happening over here on the page? nothing of the paranoia, nothing of the conspiracy theories. this is the new literature tracing all forms of consciousness.
hay i am educated, i have a bachelors.
that makes you a dufficient, a fake it til you make it expert in the given field of study. get a hold of yourself man. just get a grip for a moment and consider where is the use for you today. you think you fit into some social plan, your life is as organised as a cathedral; some plans were out on paper and then construction began in the usual manner on the spot.
i have not really stopped studying, i have designed my own curriculum.
and when do you hand in the term paper?
i have thought this through and reached the conclusion that exams are not an adequate judgment of skill nor talent. they are too heavily drawn out, no it will only be circumstance of death that will determine the success of my studies.
because you can, that is your why. do you accept the terms and conditions of your white supremacy?
i either take it or walk away. there are plenty more from where i come.
you are playing at no regrets, shift blame, take no responsibility.
i am just trying to get along with my life in those circle prescribed. you tell me, do i look like someone who strangles puppies in the basement?

oh no someone saw me there. i made contact.
how did you hear about it?
well you know i have my channels.
what were you supposed to be doing on this island city?
just here to work on a few words really. i tracked them all the way here.
you are trying to tie me up with perception.
that would be phenomenon.
you are still studying..?
no, that limb dropped off years ago. just this iron lung for breathing.
pull your socks up man and get into a mode of understanding, switch the channel, flick the switch, injustice is spreading over this one world and no one is inculpable. the misinterpretations of sin are a runaway train to extremism.
blow my misunderstanding up against the wall and call it art.
i would really like to know if you are paying any attention at all.
well obviously too much, but i am getting used to, namely because it is imposed upon me.

 

i am making a brand of myself, will you buy into me?
just be yourself. don't be didactic.
yeh, you just watch me not being didactic.
just look at you not doing it. now give me a little attitude.
i cannot be everyone for you. you got to be someone too some time.
i'll be the old shameless man.
what if, what if i slam my head up against the ban saw? tell me what you would do old man.
shit i am late.
yeh, tell it to your wristwatch.

i am the modern born traveler.
have you ever heard of taking it too far?
yeh, but i am more afraid of not taking it far enough. it is easier to peel back then to have never got there.
i've been living on the other side of the rock where they've been getting there shit together for the last couple of thousand years just to get out of the cold.
i just need to stretch my legs. a short walk is my preferred mode of travel.
people like you have turned the peat marshes into a tourist destination.
people like me...people like you have made traveling an expensive fashion check on the breast, surrounded in your own language you take your living room wherever you go.
don't hate me cause i find speech difficult. i stutter at best.
goes without saying.

where are you heading off to?
down to the job place on sunday for a weekend workload.
why not play the tourist?
i have got to give them the performance.
that's just the advertising. the public really want something to go home with. just a little something. a few words on paper.
well you could say the performance is words on paper. all one page. there are words following words and other words. there is at least a sense of imagery in a protending consistency that one word may extend over two line which is in itself suggesting something in the realm of artistic intention.
they want something new to talk about, not just the old things.
well here is just fine, i am old now and i still find this new.
is there something you can show me here or am i just going to break down into tears?
i could pass you a gag but you would have to understand that no one would take you seriously.
the only answer is to set your laughter to stun.

someone whose company is bearable in what i am doing right now maybe later. just check in make sure everything is still operating as per normal.
nothing really changed.
just got to get away to get these things done.
out of the way  lives may have me burnt-out by the time anything like a return appears. i am turning back now on a lot of lost conversation.
have you really been trying to put people on all this time.
no it is just that when one is going to lie it works best as if you make the lie the truth you know spin it right out across all worlds.
that brilliant head of yours is always picking up a new irregularity.
just patterns holmes, just looking for patterns.
nothing recurring i hope.
well yea, that is exactly the thing it recurs until you do something about it.
can you see the misapprehension in my eyes recurring? i am trying to sink it into happiness.
i will tell you when i am finished.
i know you dont always find the complete package so i left a few noxious vapors down there, just some of the worst.

Why do you not read more poetry?
Fuck you, i read poetry. I listen to it often. You are a cunt.
Hey, easy on, i did not know. You never talk about it.
What do you want to talk about. It is poetry. You read it. It speaks to you or you work at it. Read it, consumed it, enjoyed it. Get to writing it if you dare.
Yeh well, you know, what can i say. I am glad.
Here is something untranslatable, good luck with it: the dope that finds you. The dope that finds you, the poetic dope cannot be described, you forget where to inject smoke ingest deposit, the body, the high, the orifice at the ready, put the rocket in.
I will put you in my rocket.

Well we just have the worst of it, so we do not worry about having any of it. Personally, I am just getting the hang of it. I never really wanted it, but I took it out of wasteful hands. It is going to make the cut, I got it a little early, but that will dictate the market. Sell it when I cannot get much more out of it, nothing more to be gotten out of it, not that I ever got anything out of it. I just like to see a room filled with scrolls of paper, you know, litter the floor with typewritten nonsense. It makes for a pleasant interior feel, a vibe of literature, conversation of everything, madness on the outside. I am working toward an unbegrudgable death..

Wallowing about in a sea of self absorbed obsession for the last thirty years, am now trying to crawl to shore from the deep end. There are bubbles in the blood. Well if it kills me at least i will die trying to get a hang of very little, just putting words down on the page.
Do you think you can make a living out of that?
No, but i expect i can live doing it.
It is not going to kill you, the writing that is.
Not directly, no. But i am waiting for the men in masks to kick in the door and beat me to death with batons. Then i will have felt an ounce of success.
Until then sit tight.
You know it. There's no warmer place to be moving onto.
So you do expect a crash at the door any night now, to be dragged off and never seen again?
I don't lose any sleep over it.
How long has it been since you have felt beautiful?
I think i had an orgasm yesterday.
No, no, you would know if you had an orgasm.

we are already in hell. we just have not got it organised yet. the temperature is still rising and it is a little wet.
which makes it smell of shit?
no that's natural processes.
do you have to sit upon a toilet all day?
i cannot help my arse from doing what it does best.
have you nothing but this body?
juniper berry all over the room, do you want me to be a pleasure centre?
what do you think i am doing here? i am going to bring about change ever so quickly, at least i know this much.
at least you think you do.
what's the difference?
i am going to suck up the chance and reintroduce the death penalty for arseholery.

Cast sail, set mast; bon voyage Atlas! Any good seaman would tell you, true and true, oceans disappoint. How does she know what you want unless you spell it out? Come closer, never lose your appetite for delight, desire and dissatisfaction.

The most part of wretched is sick of the forecast of gloom and poverty. The newly high noon of doom can hardly be heard in contemporary scripture or law. Oh dear old words not mine, stolen, borrowed or found, are forgotten. Oh first words of force not mine, the hour runs a new direction.

Too bold, her seed of Chaucer cut under her flesh. It came forth to give her a literary task. A reason to stymie the blood.

Sink into a tub. Sink into sleep. Slip into a dream. Slip into the everyday nomad. Heat the oven. Heat the body. Write the new literature. Write a wrong. Read an epic poem. Read a letter protruding out an envelope like a bone out of the skin. Lose yourself in time spent reading stories. Lose yourself running nowhere, but always forwards.

Hold the straight line and come on the stubbornly uncooperative will. The point under the king's tongue tells anyone what to do. See a different point de vue. Change the decision making process. Usurp a son.

Initiative is understanding the flexible shape shifting words that expand languages of the ancients and make way for the untouched ideal.

The weak inherit the earth dialectic. Mediation. Alienation. Declination. Break the circle. Do away with hierarchy. Focus on science.

- Go off and shoot yourself full of junk insults on the electronic opiate.
- Come in for a hug.
- Do not patronise me. I can see the malicious intent beneath your beady eyes.
- You Kant!

Strip me of all this skin. There is nothing between me and the sin I live within. Take me back to those adolescent roots.