online literature since 2007

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

an exercise in prose that just stops

but the worst thing about it was the all-pervasive SOMETHINGness of the place, the cold shimmery air and the feeling that spiders were always nearby. everything and its confusing din and clatter all the time. particularly the clocks - dear merciful god they get you going! the bourgeois juxtaposition of samovars and gongs and hd tv and rooms filled with old books about all the things that had been destroyed in this place, with norman rockwell prints and a dog's head proudly smiling in a decorated general's uniform that william blake might have drawn after a nightmare.
this divebombing approach to life where you give it a heavily weighted single shot and then after that you either hit it or you get shot up. metaphor doesn't mean anything. if divebombing and divebombers were eliminated from our society, our ills would be ameliorated, McMeals put on our tables, worries taken out of our heads.
our aims are not aimless, but our aims might be off. this is not to say that i am not guilty. that i do not listen to the kinks like i read geofferey chaucer. and that i do not go liquor stores and get carded. and that i can rarely live in the moment. and that i