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🗒⌨️📱🕳 🔊🔉🔈🔇 🗑
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✍️😭👑📚❌♻️💩😭👑📚☑️👇💩➕
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✋💩💰🕸🎓⛓✍️📗🌐🔦♻️🔮
this shit
i look page i look keys i look screen
are empty going silent emptied
castdown but no fuck fuck this shit
forest drops around you
oceans storm into you
bombs fall and blow up you
whats more oppressive terrorintheair in our city
or monumentsofempty in our city where my towers arent gilded
writing gushing princess stories wont change shit they are shit and
this shit systemofgreed intheworld vicing us wants changing
and fuck publishers anyway
resist turdytawdryweboftaughtchains write nextstorysystem find renewthefuture
this should be bby rkd
blog post innit i’m not a fucking writer i just pay for this shitttt
cash$$$
money$$$
hoe$$$z
episodic repetitivity.
the totalised disappearance (death) in your mind of what is far from you, temporally and spatially, is forming the basis of the whole of my thinking right now.
a poesis of related epiphanies has been striking me with a kind of episodic repetitivity:
(1) the poem and the art object are beautiful because they are a kind of material crystallisation of the ineluctable yet intangible forces that seem to govern us — death (death of god; hard gem-like flame under the sentence of death eternal; the absurd man facing the totality of the universe and laughing), language, (the gwistic turn and the ism that informed it), and time.
(2) poems — mapped by metric — uniquely crystallise time, bringing eternity into moments, or bringing the mother-tongue into time, or bringing times and spaces together as if the whole four-dimensional universe were the crumpled snotty handkerchief up your granny’s sleeve.
(3) the problem of time and the place of my self in it — exacerbated and intensified when in moments of crystalline genesic fixation i am mentally entirely elsewhere to my present time, or when in simple mental recollection i am flung beyond my present to a sense of another time (provoked by a smell, the memory of a place, a conversation, the recognition or reconstruction of some kind of patterned recirculation, episodic repetitivity) — and the fact that in those moments i am forced to acknowledge the entirely wrong temporally stable identity i had constructed for myself in re-membering the real difference of that person to the person i say is me.
(4) i am struck in these moments by a sense of the profoundly episodic repetitivity of memory, yes, but also of the dark astral difference of my isolated selves in their singularity in dislocated time: how can they all be me?
peter lanyon i never knew u.
a phenomenal blast this roar of heat that makes you
a hot-air intensity stagger backwards emanates
akin to the puff of dry from sickly sewery rising vapours
ventilated thermal greeting from a massive hospital chimney
that meets you when you over an inferno of shit but
walk into a department store you rise glide up with it
WRITED. (Journal) 
