this is trouble some, no creative repositories nearby and the urge to write is coming through strong. fuck, nothing to write about just yet, but it always comes....

{damn caffeine}

can't tell the circus kids i'm tired of being the ringmaster after only a few shows,

{not talking metaphorically here}

can't tell them i'm too much of an egoist and need my creativity to speak of me and my immediate compatriots only, not someone else's ensemble of performers that i have no control over...

cirque is not my medium, and this saddens me greatly.

but i did get a bass drum out of it.

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i'm being paid $30 an hour to write this,

now i'm being paid $30 an hour to unwrap a lolly and eat it.

it costs just under $30 to by an apa referencing guide; it costs the same to send a palette of a many thousand of the self-same book anywhere along greg's route.

how very fine and absurd we all are

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.

open letter to office ladies

i can taste your self loathing.
the smell of it is rusting holes in the reality around you,

I want you to start crying, you've been holding back for so long i know you're afraid you won't stop.
i just want to hold you until all that water is free of it's dam and you're an empty vessel ready to be filled again.


i'd go for helium,
it'll give you some time off the ground.

rows of teeth like cuttlefish bones

found on an old thumbdrive backup, recording of honours brain spasm

when we talk of life, we are talking of a story {nods to giddens}, yet when we talk of a story we look only at it’s de-constituent parts, not at the life of the story {sartre, death of text as well as death of author – we’re eulogising a text when we speak of it}. much like the scattered mistresses of renaissance sonneteering {nods to vickers} we atomise our texts, disassemble them and analyse them from a particular view to ascertain a particular hypothesis of the literature. do not think for an instant i do not love this process, the extrapolation of detail and meaning is the well spring of intelligence and an exercise of existential importance; the ‘but’ of the matter however is that in doing so we cordon off our section of understanding. so the very act of critically appraising a text contains its own censorship, plays out its own mores and reveals the limits of the hypothesis. while we sometimes don’t see it and often daren’t speak its name, we are living post-modern, the popular critical zeitgeist is that of delimited, self-referential texts.

sometimes i think the very purpose of literary endeavour is just about having enough to say at a conference so that we don’t all go mad trying to fill the silence.

Reintroduction

as i sit here, typing, i become less and less infinite.

the more text i produce the more expectations i produce in you, sitting at your screen, hand on you human interaction devices. the more i attempt to adhere to some coherence of structure and form... but already the aesthetics of this blog means a mild subversion of the very form i attempt. shit, did i even propound a form?

wasn't there something about thought and action somewhere?

is this an action?

....how about this?












o r

t h
i


s

{question mark}

welcome to my blog, this re-introduction {at long last} won't last long.