Thursday, February 10, 2011

Short Bio ~or* A note on publishing


 I am a destructivic-distrue-n-creativic functionalistic-atum-isic poet-tick.  A wittic wit-tick, engineering mathematical boredom probage dull bag vapidity scorched by surreal astral luminary yielding essence ether slice-ic dice-ic wordic triflictulationative-izing poesia -  poetical fruadulence inadvertant due to celestial lathe milking process - aim-ed at wooing cooing Gaea Crone Witch Goddess, essence ether supersticiousic experimentalizing, to catch a silent blaring coo echo report to validate purity of organic transmission frequency signal and to ponder the deformative, twisted, bentedness, of the honesty of trith (truth) and existence of bitty (beauty) for the sake of destructification by tearing tears at the hand of distorted trith and bitty.

A few came forth - impulsively - perhaps wrongly - and saw a shimmering Dathem Genthen Dorphin Spreker lit lighted - me: a nihilistickism word brander brendatic fighting academic moth infested pages with word nihilism - in front a their countenances glowing.   In other words, I am a tail pipe sucker, black burn face off, whoop whoop whoop, gas mask masked organic toxicity living in Pleasantville at 70 degrees Fahrenheit.  Trith and bitty frowned-fawned-acknowledgeded  this undertaking after I turned away from their talismans and scarabs for bearing themselves so nakedly.

Boo!  Boo! Boo who hoo. Spreaketh the wax owl candle. Cry tear nast nesty naizzy crizzy crazzy crazy!  And then, the surreal astral luminary, or maybe star essence, scorched my mind again leading to my quaranteen in Awol Risk Bedlam Ward or simply a hospitalization.  Or rather, what I like to call my witch trials due to the absolute absurd rationailty - sanely sane be my motto - of the Poison Toothed Heads, or rather psychiatrists, who thought me to be wrong, abnormal, sick, incapable to handle my own affairs, as I screamed my scorched head off at them, incipient inferno, which of course is only acceptable when one is locked down in captivity, the Awol Resort of sorts, like a wild beast, able to yell there.  Screams are carefully guarded these days usually relegated to a performance or official stage setting like a concert or drama scene.  Yell on the streets too flagrantly and carried off though shall be against thy will and roughly so.

The warm machine, humanistic age guardian, normalizing the decadent, cancerous, grey concrete metal machine sludge of a civilization,  will cover every reach of this place with an alloy platform - one of these days - and hence my toxicity and gas-masked-ness and superstitious-ic sniffing of acid rain pine needles and sipping of the Hermaphroditic Gaea Which Crone Goddess's-Bandit Clown Oil- Father Earth hybird caw-cawk-tail brew.  Crazzy crazy haizy hazzy be I?! A witch trial I say, a witch trial. The Gaea Which Crone Goddess told me so.

Anyhow, I have strayed from the point, which I can't help doing as all people ever do is talk like machine robots - "all set", "allright", "ok" [and every grey bilge conversation that can possibly grow from such soil]- and interrogate tactful-lessly about ones origins and what ones business is, as if one always needed an excuse ex-cuss or reason to be sitting there under the Big Brother eye - in utter solemn seriousness.  And for a change of pace, yap and yip and yep about what kind of sprocket they are and where they are plugged into the machinge grid, girl fabricated image aphrodesiatic, hynotic, deprivationalation, toxic tonic narcotic,  and the grand hypnotic specticle Sport, once they have properly scrutinized each others grey dim grimness.  And to dash interaction with a finishing stroke, cast, throw, burp, emit a "charming" little Amerikanic grunt laugh, that sounds like, what I call a Junker Call, that is, I guess, supposed to be a charm or charming?

And the reason I presume the sun star surreal astral celestial luminary scorched my mind out was due to my inability to swallow the machine protocol matrix (which I "grid" to maintain and exist and breath) which made me so sick that I started spewing up anihilitic toxic slice-ic dice-ic wordic sludge due to the machine griddings and sprockets within  me unable to engage, establish, and sustain a slavery/worker lifetime protocol programatic.  And thus I deem these novice, green neophyte attempts at poetizing: my Poet-tick try-sings, like songs - directed at Nobody and Noone - my two grandest of companions.

I also I didn't want to disappoint the humanic machine bots who spoke to me, off hand, ironically and randomly, about what my task was to be, and, that really it was their machine nature that prompted them to think I was a poet or maybe rather a creative fraudulent poser.  And by the way who needs another poetry book today by some toxic hurling pen scribbler with greatness breaking his spine in two that some dud will read and propagate dudiness all the world over.  Then I spoke with Nobody and Noone, and my auotpilot will - auto-mechanistic - gridded this writing, and my two ace-os-e-ats reminded me how much I like little protocol humanic droids running around and how junked out junker sludge was the ignition spawnic hole to  fate-ic anihiliticus treadic poetic chantic rants and thus the coalescence of this prance-ic dance-ic muse-ic song. I do feel like Farenheit 451-ing or Alexandra-ing the place half the time.  Half the time...Incipient confliction...

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