Saturday, November 9, 2013

A Blast from the Past: Short Bio or A Note on Publishing

I am a destructic-dis-true-creativatic 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 triflictulation-ative-izing poesia poetical fraudulence inadvertently, by celestial lathe milking process, aim-ed at wooing cooing Gaea Whore Witch Goddess, essence ether superstitiousic experimentalizing, to catch a silent blaring echo report, to validate purity of organic transmission frequency signal in order to ponder the deformative, twisted, bentedness, of the honesty of trith and bitty (truth and beauty) for the sake of destructification by tear at the hand of distorted trith and bitty.

A few came forth - bravely - perhaps wrongly - and saw a shimmering Dathem Genthen Dorphin Spreker lit lighted - me, a nihilistickism - in front a their faces 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 farenheit. 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. Speaketh the owl. 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 quarantine in Awol Risk Bedlam Ward or simply a hospitalization.  Or rather, what I like to call my witch trials due to the absolute absurd rationality - 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... or something...

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 gaskmaskedness and superstitiousic sniffing of acid rain pine needles and sipping of the Hermaphroditic Gaea Which Whore Goddess's Bandit Clown Oil hybird caw-cawk-tail brew.  Crazzy crazy hazy hazzy be I?! A witch trial I say, a witch trial. The Gaea Which Whore 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 interrogate tactful-lessly about ones origins and what ones business is, as if one always needed an excuse 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 machine grid, girl aphrodesiatic, hynotic, deprivationalation, toxic tonic narcotic, and the grand hypnotic spectacle Sport, once they have properly scrutinized each others mechness.  And to dash interaction with a finishing stroke, cast, throw, burp a charming little Americanic 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 grid 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 No-one - my two grandest of companions.

I also I didn't want to disappoint the humanic mech 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 No-one, and my auotpilot will - mechanistic - gridded this writing, and my two ass-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 tread-ic poetic chant-ic rants and thus the coalescence of this prance-ic dance-ic muse-ic song. I do feel like Farenheit 451-ing or Alexandria-ing the place half the time.  Half the time...Incipient confliction...

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