“glasgow grin: {jupiter vibration;;;;; x ray you see through my closed mouth my cold, naked teeth;;;; i push the rim of my glasses up my nose;;;;;; eyes? who said anything about eyes??!}” (by james krendel-clark, poetry for the end of time)  

“art was the language of the gods. the gods having disappeared, it became the language in which their disappearance was expressed, then the language in which this disappearance itself ceased to appear. this forgetfulness now speaks all alone.” – maurice blanchot, “the space of literature”

remember that time that i bought a book by oliver sacks instead of the white godess by robert graves or dh lawrence or anything else too sexual because i wanted to be rational and also remember that amazingly attractive young woman who had worked at the psychiatric clinic i stayed at who was hip to kierkegaard and dostoevsky and was super interested in the idea of transgression (in specifically dostoevskian terms though, interestingly), she recommended that i check out oliver sacks and i didn’t do it actually until now, several years later. i’m doing it because she seemed like she had her shit together, also like almost idk goth or just like sleek she always wore the same tight black skinny jeans and she had an amazing body, very athletic, very tall and lean i think she used to do crew (the sport). the oliver sacks book i got is the one he wrote about migraines. Electra’s parents disapproved of her drinking. “Our parents were alcoholics,” they would say. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” It caused them all sorts of terrible problems. Electra’s grandfather had been an engineer whose wife had died in a car crash caused by drunkenness and he had devoted the rest of his life to studying traffic statistics and the ergonomics of cars. Electra’s father didn’t use any substances (except marijuana which he claimed was “for his back”), and ate a very restricted diet in case he overate. Electra’s mother followed the example of Electra’s father and usually didn’t drink. Itching with anticipation, Electra opened the 20 dollar bottle of VOGA Italia Red Fusion. She was sweating like a motherfucker. It was hot her air conditioner was totally kaput {{middle of the summer}}. There was a fan going but it didn’t do much good. She decided to drink straight out of the bottle. This wasn’t very good wine, and all of her wineglasses were broken either because she had broken them ritualistically, shattering them in a fury against the iron railroad ties that were propped up in the corner of her room like monolithic minimalist sculptures (echoes of Bowie: “breaking glass in your room again”, rituals at the edge of pseudoscientific-superstitious slumber), and while she hadn’t drawn something awful in the carpet she sure had drawn a lot of crazy stuff on the walls and ceilings which were also pasted with magazine rip-outs both glamorous and enigmatic, and also just very very cool and magicfetishes. She took a swig. It was actually pretty good. “AWARD WINNING WINE”, said the bottle. She took a second swig. She swilled it around in her mouth. Experimental. Her parents were downstairs, none the wiser. She felt a halo forming around her head and body. Blech. Third swig. Now she was kicking back in a sort of anticipatory way. Her parents wouldn’t bug her. Usually when she was in the lab, they just sent her a text. That was what she called her room. “The Lab.” Nobody but her was allowed in The Lab. Or at least that was her child-like fantasy about the thing. She took off her glasses and tried to properly fold them but one of the glassesarms was bent so no go, impossible, askew. The wine went down so easily, it had a creamy body to it. Buttery, almost. Actually surprisingly decent, drinkable, considering its cheap price and trashy aesthetic. She looked around the room, sighing. She looked around the room, sighing. She looked around the room, sighing. And her buttplug was in and that was it. Skepticism. She looked around the room. She looked around the fucking stupid room and sighed. She sighed and farted a bit. Another swig, bigger this time. She looked at the artificial flowers she had used to decorate the room and the torn out fashion mag pics of Rihanna and the cover of Bruce Sterling’s book “Heavy Weather” she had taped to the wall to remind her to research cyberpunk. There was an abstract, Konstantin Melnikov esque stylized crow saying “CAW! CAW!”, the symbol for jupiter, all drawn, inscribed, if you will, with giant piece of graphite or in oilpaint/oilstick, there was a cartoon demon or dog or something saying “Take a load off brotha” in an R Crumb sort of way, she was interested in cartoons, in Lichtenstein, in the brand-function of cartoons and their iconicity so a lot of the crap she had scrawled on the walls (like murals but also like a giant sketch-book) was an experiment, fucking around w these ideas, you know, Lichtenstein meets Koons meets Hentai meets reading too much Boris Groys… She kicked at some of the scattered books around. “The Complete Rimbaud”, “The Nightmare of Reason: A Life of Franz Kafka”, “Superstrings: A Theory of Everything.” Here was a vinyl LP of one of Bjork’s most recent albums. Here was an old book from the 20s called “Poetry by American Negroes”. She felt that her entire existence, which included all her stuff and art, was grotesquely inadequate. Laughably, like she herself were just a cartoon, a character in “Neon Genesis Evangelion”. What was the point, even? Another swig. She had hardly even made a dent in the bottle. Her winetrip had begun. Winefuck, winedrink, winegod, godfuckme why am I alive I’m such a loser. She cracked open the second bottle. She picked up a copy of “The Wealth of Nations” by Adam Smith. It had a heft to it. Once she’d had two or three bottles of wine she would be near-blackout, kind of grey-out drunk. The last time she’d been drunk like that… and it was kind of embarassing since it showed how inexperienced with drugs she was, she had wandered around the neighborhood trying to break into unlocked houses. But they were all locked. And she kind of chickened out. Half chickened out. She had actually started to break into a house that seemed abandoned (it wasn’t, the owners just weren’t home), and as she smashed the glass porch-door to get to the handle inside the dude from the next house over yelled “Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing!” She pretended to ignore him and staggered off, breaking into a run once she got around the next block and then looking over her shoulder down her cul-de-sac street to see a cop car go past. Phew. Close one. Cut to present. ||||||||| What’s the point I’m pink a font I’m queer gay fag I’m scripted like a queerfag like transexual ravedazzleshimmer shmushh me out into the outside baby mm oof ow ooch ooch ooch cut off my ego and feed it to a fish swim in the space of the mistake head throbs in MAGIC. then drift, escape, get out, scram, go. slosh out of your lachrimal glands wetly like precum {{the holes where the tears come out, who knows why}} wallow in electric happiness, perforate perfection, have fun with it, relax and unwind, sunshine and style, coffee and vivaldi. perforate a corner and peel, did i already say perforate? whatever, charismatic narcissistic creep away, run, get lost. hide in freud and hide in marx and lacan and whatever you are lacking will come to you eventually, you’ll find your lover, you’ll establish some sort of independence and you’ll become famous and {{lol yeah but who gives a fuck}} in the secret passageway in the fairytale castle. emotion, no thanks. words aren’t my thing. away. away into the outside, the backyard, the forest. exterior view {{SNAP}}. everything is red why is everything red why does everythig look red am i losing my mind. snap a pic, share, inscribe. haha, i knew it, wow, yum, cool. frame pose and laugh, yawn |||||, glow. music video. digital. instagram

bimbofication.

DON’T BE STUPID i’m not desperate at all, i never get sad only bored dude CREDIT CARD MY MOUTH SO HOT DAD TOOTH FACE I LOVED HER DENTIST SO MUCH APPARENTLY, AREN’T THAT BAD OF THING TO BE STUFF AND UGH CHOKING ON BROKEN GLASS AND SLIME, HAVE JUST DON’T BE IDIOT CRUNCH DIGITAL CULTURAL KNUCKLES LIKE BROKEN GLASS DID I SAY BROKEN GLASS, NOTHING DOING ABOUT YOU IDIOT LOOK DOWN THE PAGE ANTICIPATE MY WORDS YOU FUCKTARD I SERVE MASTER FLO SERVES SUICIDAL DEMONS WASTE AWAY IN BAD SMELLING ART, MASTER GETS WET AND SERVE HAPPY MEAL MCDONALDS COVID-19 MALLEABLE MUSH ON A WET LEASH OF GUSHING GROK, TOO MUCH TO SUCK? 

OR NOT ENOUGH, YET… DOT, DOT, DOT. just greasing the wheels. i’m sorry i was inappropriate earlier. i was in that awkward tensed space, it was a bad phase, how you say, das man. slight scratch of the head, feel the grease of the goo that slicks it back, i floated down, into my outside. hey, that’s asignifying. mike patton pumping through the headphones. tomahawk. listen to the song my blood is singing. zoo of animal performance, speech. talk, yammer on, feel slight strands of hair on left ear and want to wipe them away as if getting telepathic onlookers “out of my hair,” comment, chat. smoking a pretend plastic children’s bubble pipe, superstitiously smoking tobacco out of a pipe, it’s a clumsy affectation, but what do i have besides affectations and poses, right? i mean like it’s one of those bubble pipes because i’m such an imbecile that’s what it feels like little kids with those pipes that just blow bubbles. because i’m, uh, immature? i’d like to be more… masculine, maybe. words, words, words. and images, just to be safe, sometimes. expressed. pursed lip. snap. point. click. nervous billow of face, left eye frown, screaming into the web, unsouled. biography photo booth. saved. recorded. claimed. a grid set adrift, squinting, squinting, pixelized.

pixie of pixels, will you resurrect me in my absence? my back reeks of teeth. so stressed my god it’s massage all the way down the line, knock back and just rape me please or just lift me up in your helicopter, lets attain new levels. santa claus. cum and go. orbit scmorbit. akhakha. jouissance, jouissance, ikk eww, omnipotence? no thanks. phallus? never mind. go back to what you were doing and look busy.