feat F.R. Scott
Leaders are landlubbers.
I hadn’t seen the material but I felt I’d been had. I, for it was I indeed, rather than accept a rent of five hundred dollars for my apartment, had preferred to occupy the cow shed, and enjoy it, as a cow might, for it is clear that I shall become your heifer, for a rent equal to that which you deny yourself.
I am in a species, you are in a country. I know not why you phalansterians use Greek words to convey ideas which can be expressed so clearly in French. I must not carpet of having bones for sale. Taken in unison, we wonder about each other’s stand, but if we open our mouths, making visible our spleen, if only then, beyond the warehouse, we slink into what’s hominid in begging, roused, dozy, becoming greater-than, unique. Then I almost pucker off your post-surgical sense of "pwoblem solving" — go home, where it is different, where we isolate each other.
The cultural is mechanical.
This campaign is a piracy, its rhemes tight mature ones: "Bad writing affects." Talk about tautologies. I was out chalking when I clawed what really stunk in that wind. I will get it and everything. I’ll go right in and pluck it. Basket it up — you too. It does break with leaden horseplay so I wouldn’t. I ego farthest. I insist upon the tactile, which I have just pointed out, as one of the more salient facts not attributed to Sparker.
The air in this shithouse has been unbreathable for a long time. It is inert. But am I also bound to share with you my provisions?
A Theoryof Poetry.
Who should be shot? Who will eat? Representation stinks like Canada and there’s no longer any coins left to turn the public houses into dens of slime. Flowers become sterile when the stamens are changed into petals, as I saw when inspecting the rose. And through excessive friction the penis loses its fertilizing power. Then, in order that the gastronomic régime of gender may produce the results claimed for religion, not only must the females be fattened, but the males must be rendered impotent. Oppress us with ourselves, or at least give us crackers if that’s all there is! Forever New! Emaciate oral pageant. Somebody stoke my pie-snout!
Little Hans.
This should be enough to wreck the attempts cybernetic power will make to envelop Little Hans in a mystique. I like to sit here lying on my bed, sort of thinking about affluence.
That reminds me of a natural comparison I can make: it’s like a pick. To wit, chance and flow no longer suffice to justify such a sweaty ennui. Forgetting, I identify with a range of your images, from the pasty to the brackish to the sharp.
You will turn back.
[Front XII:3 (May/June 2001): 8-9.]
