Duck, Duck, Cockatiel
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The move is officially complete, though I'm still living with a few islands
of stuff—the main one located in what agents like to call the "meals area".
Rea...
7 years ago
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Miss Awol and the Rubbish She Inspired
In a dreamy place of whatsoever, she sends off pride to whosoever, and removes the vowels from her typewriter. In the dreamy space of three short hours, she writes a novel of consonants, and eats the paper. At the stroke of midday, and in firm prime, she wanders like a wonderful catfish and spies a pre. So goes her prowling and her cain; so goes her gutter-call and her lack of second-thoughts (counteracting my sensual abundance). So goes the sorry woes of those who chose to read my prose.
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5 comments:
I was prepared to never deface this blog by commenting in it again, but damn.
Actually, in light of all the robots that prowl these parts, I rather enjoy human (for want of a less-graphic word) defecation, so you'll face no opposition to whatever spouts from your pen.
That would explain the enjoyment I derive from watching God awful films. And may I be so bold as to presume you are a recently revealed Miss A? Also, I'm not entirely certain as to which human defecation you refer: are you bad-mouthing my few commenteers, or are you just admitting to the well known fact that I'm full of shit (and so are, by rights, these pages)?
If we, through some wildly impractical fantasy, set up some sort of self-absorption competition, I would take the crown no question. But again, everyone is a narcissist, so there's no point arguing about it. And yes, if we continue this strange debating of vanity and worthlessness, then we'll both (or just me) descend quickly into stupidity and overblown paragraphs. But who knows? Maybe it'll become an inexplicably compelling novel.
In case anyone was wondering, the last sentence was borne out of self-deprecation, not arrogance. So it's only aesthetically revolting.
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