Abusing Nietzsche, they descend
in their Joe Brainard pyjamas...
Sunday, October 25, 2009
I REMEMBER
I remember in the seventies when I was maybe thirteen and my hair was so long and I was so skinny and I wore powder blue terry cloth shorts so short that a truck drover driving past me saw me from behind and whistled.
William Keckler. Poet, Narcissist, Blawger. Sad clairvoyant. Answering machine for the dead. Beep. Formerly, the Valerie Solanas of American poetry blogs. If I owe you an apology, I'm saying it right here. J'accuse la manie. Butthole Whisperer and erstwhile poacher/harvester of ivory. Out of Africa and deepest Harrisburg. Goreyphile from a very early age. Bipolar bear much baited by circus freaks. Let's watch crackheads watch RUGRATS on vintage NICKELODEON.
WHORE PIECE:
Be a whore for a year.
This means a literal whore.
Have sex only for money.
Have sex only with people you despise.
Throw all the money you earn
into the sea late at night.
Come back the next day
and see if any money washed ashore. Complain.
I wish I could say humans move me closer to God, but usually it's the Cocteau Twins. I'm crazy as a Trappist monk talk show.How come nobody ever complains that they're overrated? I have poetry horror stories. I don't hate anyone but human coat hangers get on my nerves. Cliquey sons-'a'-bitches. Son, I am disappoint. The greatest weakness of anything is that it's not something else. Disability niggah. I cannibalized a hipster and I liked it. Pray for me.
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