rue josef stephens
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.