NEEEYUW LITERARY MVMNT!!>! – Aaron Barry

November 7, 2025

okay so like we’ll do what baudelaire did w/ les fleurs yeah like all decadent and sppleeny n dark n shit n balzazc lol ballsack with hi extravaganze and we can all wear houpellandes but with anime girls on them (semi-presumably jokingly) and some deconstructed zynn patches from bitchin wooden pipes from temu (been getting a lot of recs recently) and teh sherlock hokmsme! hats
sherlock holmes*
( i hear the kerouacs and the beats loved him) and maybe we’ll throw in a dash of surrealism cause wacky’s cool randomness and shit like kaleidoscopic yknow symolbic and that can be contrasted with our focus on realism but like the post-post-post-nth-modern kind, where it’s super/supra-mini-micro-macro-ironic but quasi-sincere, equalling out at 72.1879% ironic and 18.1174% sincere and ???% neither and whatever percentage is left existentially and artistically and metapyhysically unclassifiable and oh we should all buy lions and monkeys and skulls like lord byron but pay for the animals’ adequate care out of the group communal fund that we all contribute to according to our abilities and familial social status because the mvement shd center around equitability and honesty and openness but also old-school meritocracy and internal/informal competition (but never fully bcuz infighting = bad/scary + we don’t want any spats like w/ themodernists) and pearlescent drip-drops of international stuff in translation is good but also stuff from antiquity—forgotten movements—non-western antiquity—but also contemp mythology—wd be very storm und drang of us, wouldn’t it? so marlowe-y? and does anyone own a cabin? i’d offer to build one, but… feel like we need a cabin to play monopoly deal in and to hate on real-life monopolies and to house our notebooks and ha ha wouldn’t that be so transcendalist of us? so walden? so r.c. waldun? like the youtube channel!! we NEED to start one for this i’m pretty sure thoreau would have liked takis. i heard he did
oh wait and then it should totallylyyl include

*

the type of mawkish, unskilled love poem you, a fool, write for a cute, freckly, bespectacled hinge girl right before 1) one of you (likely her) decides that maybe, probably, most likely you’re not right for each other and are better off never speaking again; and/or 2) she tells you about her abusive ex, vape addiction, bpd symptoms, fascination with garfield, rampant suicidal ideation, and all-time bad credit score

for s—who keeps surprising me!

—“and i throttle the trunk of adorétion,
masticate upon shards of its
discarded bark”—

—this preamble has nothing to do
with love—

—i wrote it out of bashfulness;
allow me to try again—

—kiwis prevent macular degeneration,
a condition associated with aging—

—and i don’t want your eyes
to deteriorate—

—in fact, they’re one shade divorced
from sublimity—

—and i don’t want you to
age—

—or i do, but i would wish it to settle upon your “trunk” with
autumnal ease, slow procession, wintery silver—

—i know—i’ve never been good with the lines; that’s why
i’m deflecting to kiwis again—

—but maybe that’s what love is: not bark
or ambrosia or mastication or preambles—

—rather, eyes and fruit and grace and degeneration;
ambles in the forefront and post—

—a hand at the back, a ride-along to that eventual
optometrist’s appointment—

—when we’re both too blind to tell
the kiwis from the trees—

(—I LOVE YOU!!!)

*

i don’t drink, but suddenly i decide to down a mickey of hennessy and also smoke a joint and go to an indie movie about philosophy or something and come up with this garrulously titled poem (i loathe garrulous titles like this, by the way—they’re awful—trust me—everyone uses them now, but i hate them—i promise i’m a good guy)

short of a pedant’s aposiopesis
and no clearer a zealot’s monologue,
the mighty Zarathustra descends a ladder
of gruyere to mumble amalgam and
prestige, con-fusion fatigue, point out
sibilant horizon not visible to real eye
t’citizenry circumspect, hands wring
chubby chicken burger’d about
the suppos’d apocryphal anecdotal
aphantasical “””(m(void)””” fourteen
feet wide and xac(log10) empirical feet
down to where a fleshlight can’t see but
how good orpheus played andrea dworkin’s music (!)
and *glass breaking* she eats the cheese ladder
down in one jaunty man-spaced gulp slipping in
bend of physics all 400 pounds and frizz to
drop drop down and suckle Zarathustra’s toes,
steal a fungus at the thought of women n’t joining
the fray at the edge of the “”””””””VOID”””””””””(TM)
forsooth ‘t’h’at l’berty they needth! to to to! also be sad and
sable-plagued you see they’re people too toes and all tasty
toes licking they too Dubai toes defecation but they toes glass
eeling break bad Zara mmm with the musty toes let us lilac and plume
not lick we want too mm and what we’ll arrive at is a new a new spirit mm
for the oneself’ll the age the you & this is why i’m usually sober

*

keats, byron, shelley; thought i’d be dead @ 20

lucifer buys his anti-aging cream at rexall

that was a good first line

that was a bad second line

this is an even worse third line

i’m losing it

i have been

since i discovered that i’m actually 30 literally not theoretically

they say you can age w/ grace if you treat streetways like cotton candy

(that doesn’t make any sense)

no you’re supposed to stare at the street lamps & eat cotton candy for the micro-nutrients

(that was it)

& then you get to live a long long long life until you’re XX or YZ & then you get to meet the gods

but me

i thought i’d be dead by this many revolutions spared the hell of earthly tenure

a young(ish) man snacking on the fate strings of the romantics

did you know shelley after getting tired of his wife & feeling himself comfortably spent made a sandwich chartered a boat & sailed off to die at sea?

i’ve made up some details but the story’s otherwise true
my death was supposed to be something similar (& just as watery)

my relationships as prolific & morose

yet here i am

the street lamps do not miniature suns make (i mostly go out at night)

& the roads lead not to cotton candy (my health is just okay)

the celestial melodrama of youth rarely ends in roman tuberculosis grecian leeching oceanic grave

the key then i think is to survive the bad lines

long enough to accept the palate of an integer love the boat that makes it back

& the lines like this one

because lucifer can’t decide between retinoids & ceramides & is really really holding up

the rest of my living