there’s no call for that kind of lettering… is there? or, contrariwise, do all the snarfles keep on keeping on just because the paint’s gone dry?
i’m sad somedays and other days the exstatical forms just leap over my head, with deep organic trips.
lately, it feels like all the words are draining away or maybe they’re walled up back there somewhere. plugged up with a corklike stopper.
fathermore, instead of cold calculation, it’s been replaced with a feverish mumbering (and a 1 and 4 and …) that doesn’t sauce in quite the same… or maybe the trick is happenstances which can catch the colder fetching place.
killing the babies, likeso. what’s the world to do with all the past and history that crowds us into the future so fast the present becomes an afterthought? likeso, who wants it anymore? when all that flowersmelling comes and goes, doesn’t that old bus keep trucking?
also, likeso, if all the dashed vital hordes of thought kept inside create the fantasized value-added, etc. whatsit. then what happens when all that currency falls out on the floor, devalued like, de-inflationized. or to put it another way: what’s the value in getting everything you’ve always been wanting to get at? does that desired thing (being pristine/pure in the mind’s head, lurking in some dream/imagined place, sparkling like all the (fool’s?) gold in all the hordes of pyrite movies) upon falling into the cold hard light outside the skull lose all its lustre? or is this a non-dilemma dilemma? one of those tricksy puzzle boxes that only bollix up the mind by some vacant voluntary stumbling?
contrariwise, there’s some small phenomenal axing which chops the heads of chickens or by which i’m meant to say the very thing that i never wanted saying.