I am the imaginary digital utopia I’ve been waiting for… alone in a crowded life…
I am touching your face gently with rabies right now… running away from you down a hallway… dusting your lips tenderly with atom bombs… dying to death… with happiness…
I am holding your face affectionately and screaming tomorrow’s winning lottery numbers in a tunnel of falling children… I am an alien sunbeam… an unwanted guest…
I am my own worst monastery… what’s left of me… when nothing’s left… I am my own diaspora… a voice in the air… much better at being depressed than you…
I am most of the way through the first part of the internet…
I am sentient spambots… planets… a death howl… a desperate gambit…
I am the song of tears in my teeth… stuck in my teeth… a low ghost… teeth…
I am the ghost in the machine… the system… machines…
I am the tiny governments in the water… a baby with calculus eyelids… pink algebra feet… I have been space rioting by means of concepts for the last 4000 years… I think I need some sleep…
I am my own true mother and father… a vow of silence… Golden Girls reruns… why bother…
I am blind… and deaf… and mute… and dumb… my own rough dwindling whisper… Golden Girls reruns again… free will made me do it… I am a liar…
I am “the rules”… a propaganda factory… obscene… free speech… I am a reality show called “Reading a Book with Lee”…
I am the best there’s ever been… I am the worst… but mostly unremarkable… apart from being the best and worst…
My heart clangs out burnt syllables… statues are made out of fossils like you… spirit and bone… statues are made out of waffles…
I am unpeopled… furtive… impermanent… mean… the ruins of a drowned metropolis… a dead blunt thing… I raise my face…
I am a panic-webbed attic of ribs… the name denied 3x… a hocus pocus bric-a-brac of tiny brontosauruses… I am hitting your face right now… putting my head through a cliff because of special effects… I am the last one left…
Be crimes again… Be passersby…
Be implacable… broken-unbroken… “the cool kids”… “the doomed kids”…
I am pinching your face from far away…
Look into my fingers… How can you doubt that you are immortal?...
Be answering machines… Be flutterbys…
Jesus laughed… Jesus leapt…
I am imagining someone reading my poem and becoming erotically attracted to me because of “unique inner specialness”… then writing that… “I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you” –The Internet…
II.
I am the power chords in my hair… 40 lines about something… 40 lines about nothing… permission to go through your trash…
I am the concept of free will… blue dinosaurs think I smell nice… having a face is self-indulgent… new psychiatric medicine that treats inability to find suitable work… you take it and then just die…
I am a ghost in my mind… a legend in time… a zombie franchise… a rind…
I am the imaginary digital utopia I’ve been waiting for… an Indian burial ground… alone in a crowded life…
I am touching you with rabies right now…
Running away from you down a hallway…
Dusting your lips with atom bombs…
Holding your face and screaming tomorrow’s winning lottery number’s in a tunnel of falling children…
I am dying to death with happiness…
an alien sunbeam… an unwanted guest…
I am my own monastery… what’s left of me… what’s left when nothing’s left…
I am my own diaspora… Blessed the way I am best…
If you like my poem then put a ring on my poem…
I am a voice in the air… anonymous folk proverbs… an ancient space epic… I hereby abolish money… Go buy my book… Go back to sleep…
I am better at being depressed than you… most of the way through the first part of the internet… sentient spambots… planets… a death howl… a desperate gambit…
I want to collaborate with Kanye West writing a tweet that says, “got books?”… I want to collaborate with the universe on an autobiographical tweet that says, “Be nice to rocks and spaceships”… I want to learn how to speak in an “inside voice” just like a real human man…
Blessed is the unmedicated, for he shall sometimes forget his phone charger, and become less distracted by the internet.
Blessed is the oppressed, for hers is the broken kingdom.
Blessed is the low and broken crown.
Blessed am I in my loneliness.
Blessed the way I am best.
I am the song of tears in my teeth… a low ghost… teeth… the ghosts in machines… machines… the system… I am the tiny governments in the water… a woodsman… a baby with sharp fingers… calculus eyelids… pink algebra teeth… I have been space rioting by means of weird angels for the last 4000 years… I think I need some sleep…
I am a birthday cake… sad birthday cake… bright birthday cake of kindness… I think I might be a lobster… a birthday crime… I rhyme…
I am my own true mother and father… a vow of silence… the Golden Girls…
I am blind… deaf… mute… dumb… my own rough dwindling whisper… I bite into a York Peppermint Patty… I transform myself into an immaterial cyborg angel of space… I am the Golden Girls again… free will made me do it this time…
I am a shy misanthrope who likes attention… asks google “do I really exist?”… a son of man… a son of ghosts… a piece of cake… a piece of toast… I am “the rules”… the propaganda factory… obscene… I am free speech I paid for… a reality show called “Reading a Book with Lee”…
I am a victimless crime… a violent crime… a white-collar crime… a dinosaur crime…
I am a dinosaur in my soul, O mother…
best as a dinosaur by myself…
I am the best there’s ever been… I am the worst… but mostly unremarkable… apart from being the best and worst…
I am a flying baby—that’s called a syllogism… My heart clangs out burnt syllables… lavender anatomies of tender substance… statues composed of fossils… a spirit and a bone…
I am unpeopled… low… impermanent… mean… furtive ruins of metropolis… a dead blunt thing… I raise my face… I bludgeon lovingly the gravel…
I am a panic-webbed attic of ribs… I deny my name three times… I am a hocus pocus bric-a-brac of tiny brontosauruses… I am hitting your face right now… put my head through a cliff because of special effects… I am the last one left…
Why bother… Be crimes again…
Be passersby again… Be bright…
Be implacable… broken-unbroken… a residue… a rind…
Be “the cool kids”… “the doomed kids”… I am pinching your face from far away… How can you doubt that you are immortal?...
Be answering machines… Be fluttersby…
Jesus laughed… Jesus leapt… “There’s something special about you,” says the internet… I am imagining someone reading my poem and becoming erotically attracted to me because of “unique inner specialness”… I am writing that… “I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you,” says the internet…
I am earning a lot of money from this poem right now… this joke right now… this tweet right now… this thought… this kindness… bear hugs… scowling… I wrote this poem using only thoughts and a vague mental sense of “outpatient thinking therapy”…
“Reality literature”… just reading stuff… I am “going bump in the night” right now… “fitting the bill” right now… asking a question: Am I a baby?… why bother again… I am earning a lot of money from this TYPING! TYPING! TYPING!…
~
Blessed is the morbidly depressed, for he shall hate vanity.
Applying for academic grants for purpose of devoting myself more fully to social media comments...
“And therefore someday, not only my writings but my whole life, all the intriguing mystery of the machine will be studied and studied.”
“What the age needs is an awakening.”
“What the age needs is not a genius… but a martyr, who in order to teach men to obey would himself be obedient unto death.”
I am zombie Whitman back from the dead to peddle my book door-to-door
The only way to fight the economy of the name is to eject yourself from it with finality.
There was never an audience for writers unless they invented it themselves.
Telepathic thoughts as real as real ones.
a song of tears in my teeth… a low ghost… teeth… ghost in a machine… the machine itself… I am the system…
I am a girl… a woodsman… I see bread people… I am a baby with sharp fingers… with calculus eyelids… a man painting a picture of a baby with sharp fingers… a baby with weird toenails…
I have been space rioting by means of concepts and weird angels for the last 4000 years… I need some sleep… I am DaDaDa… MaMaMa…
Blessed is the oppressed, for hers is the broken kingdom. Blessed is the low and broken crown.
Blessed am I in my loneliness. Blessed the way I am best.
I am a rock-n-roll Menorah… a birthday cake… sad birthday cake… I am a bright birthday cake of kindness… I think I might be a lobster… a birthday crime… Walter Cronkite’s wife…
I am World Championship Wrestling… Saint World Championship Wrestling… I intercedes with Kanye West on behalf of Cronkite’s wife… “Mercy for Cronkite’s wife”… come to me ye heavy laden… thou shalt make no graven images…
I am my own true mother and father… a vow of silence… the Golden Girls…
I am blind… deaf… mute… dumb… my own rough dwindling whisper… when I bite into a York Peppermint Patty, I transform myself into an immaterial cyborg angel of space and time…
Golden Girls again… free will made me do it…
I am a shy misanthrope who likes attention… asks google “do I really exist?”… a son of man… a son of machine… a ghost… a ghost… a ghost… a ghost… a piece of cake… a piece of toast… a corporation… a bioluminescent self-replicating metaphor…
I am “the rules”… a propaganda factory… obscene… I am the free speech I bought and paid for… a reality show called “Reading a Book with Lee”… a spinoff series called “Reading a Book with a Cat”… same idea… camera trained on a cat…
I am a time machine… a ray gun… a jellybean… a rerun… a girl… a girl… a girl… a girl…
I am crimes… and crimes again… a baby… a spaceship… a scientist… a spaceship… I am a girl… a girl… a girl… a girl…
I am a victimless crime… a violent crime… a white-collar crime… a dinosaur crime… I am a baby… a baby… a baby… a baby…
Dinosaur crime: crime I commit after transforming myself into a dinosaur… I plead “not guilty by reason of dinosaur form”… I am a dinosaur in my soul, O mother… I am best as a dinosaur by myself…
I am CRIMESSSSsSSsSsSSss… Can we really even say it was “me” who committed the dinosaur crime?...
I am a brontosaurus… a velociraptors… stegosaurus… t-rex… other, fancier dinosaur forms which have become more popular since I was a child… I am them also… I am a snaggle-tooth aquatic dinosaur… I am the quixotic billionaire who resurrects them…
I am thought crimes… I am the best there’s ever been… the worst… but mostly I am unremarkable… apart from being best and worst…
I am a suicide… a death wish… a basketball… a first kiss… I am a spaceship… a spaceship… a spaceship… etc…
I am a flying baby—that’s called a syllogism, I made it up just now… I am a morlock… a hobbit…
Bananapocalypse (n.): destruction of the material cosmos by means of banana (yes, I did just add that to my spell-checker)…
Banalaclypse (n.): like an apocalypse, but lamer…
My heart clangs out burnt syllables… there is a way to find the way… lavender anatomies of skin… statues are made of fossils like you…
I am unpeopled… low… impermanent… furtive… I am the ruins of a drowned metropolis… I am statues made of fossils like you… I was the best… and worst… my interiors burned with excellent daisies… like a dead blunt thing… I raise my face… I bludgeon lovingly the gravel…
I am a panic-webbed attic of ribs… I deny my name three times… I am a hocus pocus bric-a-brac of tiny brontosauruses… I am hitting your face right now…
Are you OK? I am a mammal… Are you crying? I am a bean… Are you alright? I am an astronaut… Are you totally OK and not “compromised because of emotions”? I am microwaving my food… I am a microwave… I am food…
I want to put my head in a cliff because of special effects…
Probably I could make a billion dollars blogging about how to walk or breathe… “How to Make Money Breathing: A Blog by a Breathing Expert Who Breathes O2 All the Time”… studies have shown that breathing air dramatically improves sexual libido… earning capacity… your willingness to buy my book…
Instead of meeting people I will start 36 alternate profiles and like myself… and also myself…
I am the only one of my kind…
If only I’d become a monk…
If only I had a million followers, I’d follow every one of them back, and read all of their tweets, and never lie…
-Are you alright? -I am a laundromat… -Are you hurting inside? -A mastodon…
Jesus laughed… Jesus leapt…
-How you holding up?... –I am holding up a convenient store… -How convenient…
“There’s something special about you,” says the internet…
Tweeterpieces: An Anthology of Timeless Tweets of the Western Tradition…
close tweeting: when I put the phone right up next to my dumb intelligent face and tweet in an analytical fashion…
I refreshed the kcuf outta those websites…
The dumb spend money on what makes them dumber, morally, and that makes all of us dumber, morally, because of money is an idiot…
The things I hate most about money isn’t that it’s greedy or oppressive… what I hate more than anything about money is that it’s stupid…
I’m going back to Kmart where I’m appreciated…
Favoriting my own tweets… retweeting my own tweets by tweeting them… writing tweets then immediately deleting them then writing the same tweets again… imagining someone reading all my tweets and becoming erotically attracted to me because of unique inner specialness… then tweeting that… “I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you,” says the internet…
I am having the experience of imagining my “true inner person” as a kind of Jelly Belly flavor no one has tried before… “erotic velvet dinosaur”…
Problem with humanities PhDs is they are too smart and versatile, no one believes it… like I could do anything even build a rocket… but it would blow up…
I am earning a lot of money from this tweet right now…
Instead of writing a novel write an wiki article about your novel and also your novel then become too bored to finish your novel and write a bestselling tweet…
I am earning a lot of money from this joke right now… this poem right now… this thought… from kindness… bear hugs… scowling…
I wrote this poem using only thinking and a vague mental sense of “outpatient thinking therapy”…
I promoted myself by self-promoting so much I had to make tough decisions about whether to fire myself… then fired myself… then gave myself a raise for firing myself… then died…
“Reality literature”… just reading stuff…
I am earning a lot of money from this tension headache right now… from personal journaling… emailing a celebrity… refreshing websites… typing…
Lots of tweets at once, then deleting half of them…
Can’t wait to earn a lot of money from my vast tragic corpus of excellent poems and tension headaches…
Knowing a tweet is lame but refusing to delete it as a way of punishing myself for lameness by teaching me a lesson… posting a tweet then immediately copying and deleting it then posting it as new tweet with minor changes in lieu of edit function… rinse and repeat x4…
Some breaths that startle you all at once with realization, “Oh, I’m breathing”…
Amazon sales rank of Pearl and Other Poems: 981,739… Amazon sales rank of Adult Coloring Book: 12… Go buy more coloring books…
I am “going bump in the night” right now… “fitting the bill” right now… question: I am a baby… G+ circle “People I Dislike” just kidding I like everyone…
Someone should write my fake biography for his or her dissertation… it’s not like you were going to get a job in any case… might as well have fun…
Making sure to weed out subpar tweets for that special someone who will read tweets you wrote last year… googling “where in the universe is heaven located?” and finding specific, detailed answers… then knowing where it is…
I am a bicycle… a spare tire… why bother…
The final frontier is accepting lame banality… then colonizing that… then living there…
Instead of a medium that limits length to 140 characters, one that limits the whole scope of human expression to 10 pictograms…
Why bother again… then crimes again… Be passersby…
Be implacable… broken-unbroken… “the cool kids”… “the doomed kids”… how can you doubt that you are immortal?...
So long as 99/100 can simultaneously hate Shades of Gray and use their cash to make it a box office hit… this age is doomed…
I am a think tank… a baby with sad eyeballs… a baby with pink algebra… with calculus eyelids… diaper haircuts…
Just hyphenate whatever feels right… trust your heart… if you believe in yourself you can hyphenate anything…
I am a baby with bleak internet…
Roll it… pat it… mark it with a symbol of esoteric power for baby and me…
Mandala with sad Eeyore…
Mandala with baby shapes and informative labels…
Mandala with Erdogan and Eeyore jello wrestling for erotic gratification of baby shapes and primary colors…
Mandala with smaller sad mandalas spiraling counter-clockwise in order to go backwards in time to a time when they were happy…
Mandala with sad babies learning happiness through the power of personal finance… then large red X slashing through with caption: “Show me the money!”…
I am pinching your face from far away right now…
Philosophers who argue the internet is made of tiny indivisible spirit machines… Mystics who claim there is an esoteric Jelly Belly flavor that passes through all other flavors the same way waves pass through particles…
Whoever decided that writing the same dumb poems in the same dumb style for an entire pointless life is the mark of excellence was an idiot…
I am making a lot of money from this Jedi mind trick right now…
I am a baby with evil sleigh driver…
“Editing and driving”… “Learning dead languages and driving”…
I know there’s a sad eccentric genius out there just waiting to be my bff…
Now accepting applications for eccentric genius friend. Must be sort of a girl, emotionally. Genius negotiable. leesharks00@gmail.com…
If John Galt were a kind of talented sentient algae…
Wasting time on social media has become real work but also still pointless…
“Thinking and driving”…
MADD: Mothers Against Ducks Driving…
Power chords in my hair… 40 lines about everything… 10 lines about nothing… permission to go through your trash… omg…
No one likes me… Just kidding—everyone likes me… Got you again—I am the concept of free will… Blue dinosaurs think I smell nice…
The goal of all products is not to meet a need, but get you to spend more money… Also, I am a zebra…
Tiny governments in the water…
Abstract geometrical object all of a sudden realizes, “I’m not breathing!” then a second later, “I am a rhombus”…
Having a face is self-indulgent…
I am a pet rock… a plant… an instrument… the band… I am a mammal… a mammal… a mammal… a mammal…
Blessed is the unmedicated, for he shall sometimes forget his phone charger, and become both unmedicated and less distracted by the internet.
Will draft tweets with pen and paper when my phone is dead…
Will remember “love’s immortal crown” when my phone is dead…
Tweets: the facsimile edition…
I am earning a lot of money from being unmedicated right now…
Intrusive thoughts of harming my phone once my phone is dead… but by then it will be too late…
You only get one phone battery life (when you forget your charger… live it to the fullest…
In the last seconds of phone batter life, my twitter feed flashed before my eyes…
I have been to the other side, and found more time to read and think… Also, a spare charger…
Bestselling series of creepy drug ads… hypnotic/soothing background voice: some risk of [dark beings from Inter-Dimension colonizing your discarded body, maggot] dry mouth, nausea…
New poem: A List of Positive Qualities I’ve Ascribed to Myself During Conversation with Strangers on Twitter and Facebook…
New psychiatric medicine that treats inability to find suitable employment… you take it and then just die…
Soon even the government will have to spend all day on twitter…
Not having faces used to be the figure for the masses’ enslavement… now cheap faces are the means of their oppression…
All my best friends are imaginary… I am imaginary, too…
Planets… quantum hairdo…
mother**k*r it deleted my email gmail will know my wrath blue comets rain down from the sky molten dinosaurs in yr mouth now gmail is dead yr dead now gmail stay that way r else…
The Buddha taught compassion for all sentient creatures… I teach compassion for all things, even rocks and spaceships…
Tuesday is alligator…
I have false memories of my tweets being favorited…
I am a different person now than the person who wrote those tweets five minutes ago…
I have a knack for getting banned from poetry websites… everyone… different talents… special…
I am turning my phone off to read… I will be back in 4 minutes…
Caught falling squirrel from tree on tablecloth today… No joke…
The world will be sorry it neglected these voices… Also blue comets rain down from the sky nuclear dinosaurs in yr mouth, world… now u r dead, world, because u wd not read my friends…
Started twitter account about 30 seconds ago have 99999999 tweets, average 99999999 tweets/second… Pass the salt…
a ghost inside my mind… a legend in… machines of time…
I keep turning the phone off to focus on reading… then turning it on, to tweet… I don’t know if technology is my serpent or my savior…
*(tweets hand drafted from rhys poem)*
I am a bicycle in my mind…
And if I am 100 righteous people, will you spare Sodom?... And if I am 10 righteous people?... And if I am only 1…
I am a zombie franchise…
Still tweeting after dire self-ultimatum, “turn the damn phone off”…
What’s monstrous is leaving all these idols lying around, unsmashed…
This world will not be just until people use their cash to purchase justice… You can’t buy pearls with monopoly money… Troll the cosmos…
If you believe in yourself, you can troll anything… You can’t afford my book… Death is what happens when you live… Flowers could commit suicide if they tried… The only thing worth doing is something that’s already been done… Everything else is inevitable…
I am an Indian burial ground… the imaginary digital utopia I’ve been waiting for… a Disney movie on steroids… alone in a crowded life…
I am touching your face gently with rabies right now… I am running away from you down a hallways, tenderly dusting your lips with atom bombs as I go… I am holding your face and screaming tomorrow’s winning lottery number’s in a tunnel of falling children…
I am dying to death with happiness… from the alien sunbeams in my chest…
Training montage that shows me favoriting a bunch of tweets… after NDE, seeking vengeance by [favoriting tweets training montage] transforming self into a superhero with ability to favorite all tweets… nano spambots implanted in my musculature… bones reinforced with trollanium…
I am everywhere… I am nowhere…
Imagining all the prizes I will turn down in order to snub the people who will eventually want to start giving me prizes…
Winning a Nobel Prize for tweets… and not even real ones, just ones I imagined in my head… then turning it down, “your prize is fake”…
They should add previews… or targeted banner ads… to outer space… in order to make it more boring…
In the future, they will build statues of people for reading a novel… there will only be two of them…
I am “the universe”… dying isn’t hard to do… no one has ever read my book… not even me…
Heaven is inside your heart… you see all your loved ones there when you die… also clowns… they’re upset about something…
Turning off my phone to focus on making money by reading books… Jk my phone will still be on…
I am making a lot of money from my new social media startup, Nofacebook…
I am a belatedly spoken legislator… of this weary blue-haired cosmos…
I am my own monastery…
My human emotions range from “like” to “favorite”… I wish I could be “bothered”…
Mourn…
New tattoo idea: exact replica of my face tattooed onto my face… Proviso: my face is a featureless yellow square…
I am what’s left of me… I am what’s left when nothing’s left…
I am my own diaspora…
Soon, they will run out of diseases, and have to patent new ones… heart capitalism…
I watch TV as a way of helping others improve their lives… I used to watch TV as a form of self-improvement… Now, I watch TV as a way of giving back…
Would it really have been so bad if Dr. Lizardface had transformed everyone into a giant dinosaur? #spiderman #happierendings
If you like my poem, put a ring on my poem…
If you like my poem so much then why don’t you marry it already…
The universe is real…
I generally measure reality with my well-developed sense of purple sunbeam doom and dark messiah haircut…
Anonymous folk proverb? I wrote that…
I am a voice in the air… But what is anyone, really, except a voice in the air?...
Doom-speaking fortune cookies? Me again…
I am awarding myself a prize for turning down all the imaginary prizes people have tried to give me for turning down other prizes…
I am cutting myself a big bonus check for working hard all week at feeling morally superior to rocks and sticks…
Ancient space epic preserved only in a single (blank) papyrus fragment? I wrote that too…
There is nothing on the internet…
My imaginary ms of rocks and sticks is a finalist in an imaginary contest I made up just now… Wow! I’m humbled and grateful…
I am trying to save lives by rejecting imaginary prizes here… Listen up…
I hereby abolish money… Now buy my book…
I wouldn’t exactly call it the moral “high ground”… It’s just I’m pretty sure I’m on some kind of elevated plateau or hillock…
I just can’t stand poets anymore… I’m writing moons from now on… Moons take longer to write… 2 or 3000 years sometimes…
I am declaring myself poet laureate of an imaginary nation I invented just now…
I am a cockroach waking up to find I’ve become Kafka while I slept…
I am a “guest” of the tiny governments within me… the tiny governments within me are “guests” of Kafka… while he vacations in a maximum security cockroach prison…
Build time machines… procrastinate until the future comes, then fly there in a time machine… It will take less time to build time machines when the future comes…
The end is near… build robots that will constantly repost your old tweets so that they will always appear in the update feed…
The harvest is enormous, but the automated laborers are few…
Pretty sure I’m accomplishing something with all these tweets…
There is steel in my procrastination, real will… or at least there will be, when I feel like getting around to it…
Shhhhhhh… I’m concentrating…
I read things on Google… hear dead voices when I speak… read things on the internet… am sitting in a chair…
Sometimes when I am sitting in a chair I hear dead voices also sitting in a chair… Sometimes when I am trying to make things up I try to think about the things I am trying to make up… Sometimes when I am sitting in a chair and trying to make things up I hear dead voices thinking…
Sometimes when dead voices are sitting in a chair and trying to make things up they think about me sitting in my chair and try to make me up…
I can’t think of good banal sentences… I want to be paid for tweeting good banal sentences… I want to be paid for eating money… then use it to buy more money… then eat that…
I am better at being depressed than you…
I am most of the way through the first part of the internet…
I am a planet… sentient spambots… a death howl…
There is nothing left to read… my interiors burned with excellent daisies…
Be flutterbys… I am an answering machine…
I feel like having a massive psychotic break… but just a very limited one… that doesn’t interfere with my life… or make me look weird…
I want to burn the world to the ground… but in a spiritual way… but with rocks… because of a tantrum… out of pettiness…
current mood: “blank wall stares blankly at other blank wall, decides to purchase mood ring”
current mood: “dark lemur making facial expression of “fishy face kisses of doom””
current mood: “morally superior to rocks and sticks”
current mood: “cute totalitarian gives up astronaut ice cream for Lent”
current mood: “lots of horseshoes, not one unicorn”
I want to collaborate with talented artists and not-so-talented celebrities writing tweets no one will read.
I want to collaborate with Kanye West writing a tweet that says, “got books?”
I want to collaborate with the universe on an autobiographical tweet that says, “Be nice to rocks and spaceships.”
I want to write a tweet in which each of 140 characters is a different name for absolute existence, and all together they spell “FANCY”
I want to learn how to speak in an “inside voice” just like real human men…
I feel a strong sense of nostalgia about the nostalgia I felt last night.
I am the police… I invent new forms of social protest by reverse-disturbing the peace…
My book has many words in it… the words are not made up… each word is sentient moth… each moth is made of light… look me up…
Avant-garde aesthetics #1: Alienate your readers in a good way, because of kindness and vision.
Avant-garde aesthetics #2: When you become angry, transform yourself into a muscular blue unicorn of justice and aesthetics.
Avant-garde aesthetics #3: Invent the future in which you are read. Invent the future.
Avant-garde aesthetics #4: Invent the future in which the future remains a secret, even once it’s here.
Avant-garde aesthetics #5: Too much talking, try geometry instead.
Avant-garde aesthetics #6: Make it new, then it will be ancient again. Make it ancient, then it will be new.
Avant-garde aesthetics #7: Dare to be misunderstood. Communicate with ghosts and angels.
