This project is an amalgam of words written during quiet night time sessions. It would be wonderful if you can project some meaning in it and let me know what it was. You can now grab the whole text as a PDF: whileishouldhaveslept.
What follows are some excerpts from the piece.
Isabelle, there goes your enamel. Lower your consumption of acid drinks. Do it for yourself. For all the beautiful photos impotent hedgehogs will take of your magical smile. Do it for Beauty itself, do you understand me? For beauty shall die last. I am obliged to say this not as your friend but as your dentist. The sordid eloquence of might –
the dove of Noah properly understood is a drone
the land it scouts is our empire of fear
from Nero’s pharmacy, “apologaesics”
You are an aberration, a vein appendix to the mote in your eye – motto crafted in love for S. Kierkegaard.
Let even the bovine, the three-legged veal of ignorance* brought up in the darkness of her factory farm cubicle be able to discern Beauty in our verse. For beauty shall die last. How can we be so cruel? The merit of Structure is that it is required for its own decomposition. The beauty of ruins is the traces of their self-negating structure.
But we have drunk the blood of Calvin and now we can finally cherish our talent like squirrel nuts. We can stockpile it so it will develop value. We can file the metric monsoon with the cut-throat wit of elliptic verbiage. We can chew on layers upon layers of signifiers, rearrange them as if composing a seventeen voice fuge wherein you can hear the flapping of angel wings. We can measure the intensity with which the lines are written, utilizing the proportionality with body temperature, measured rectally.
Here we are, a self-help group of metonymic appendages with existential ambitions.
the poet sits in lotus position on a soufflé of conceit producing a stench the pungency of which acerbates the mucus membranes of a baby platypus seven miles away if he is downwind, in a cloud of perceived pink bubbles emanating from the part with which he does the poetry. His head is bowed and bare and his orange dress, in a fashion faux-pas that forever eludes him, holds small cushions of air in place between it and the poet’s skin, allowing him to conveniently bask in the goosebumps of his poetic autogamy.
This whole idea emanating from the other idea that words are everything emanating from the other idea that everything matters only splits minds into two genres: The disordered, disrupted, psychotic and the fake smileys that refuse to be concerned with the low quality of the glue, actually that are not concerned with anything.