Chapel Hill

stuck a pin in yr back bone !
but chapell hill hasnt got its own passaic
its spine a spine-tingling web of fronts running thru shop-windows
caribbean curry & parota shops, pawnshops selling prototypes of shark burgers
pickled, shredded, chili-ed hengstenberg rotessa apfelrotkohl
theres always something sweet in bitterness
try an earthen-jarred kimchi buried six feet under in the north korean border !
you want a range life ?
summer babes do handstands on joburg beaches' open bar tops
piña coladas spiked with antiseptic hand soap
youre crazed !
safari now, settle down never
the green hills of africa has gone panic-stricken
a lone olive tree stands at the pink edge of a mozambique desert
projet pour la protection des animaux sauvages ?
les hommes you mean ?
« Tsvangirai withdraws his party from election saying to continue would cost supporters' lives »
gokil, thats what i mean,
at uc san diego you study films and get your indonesian late '80s horror flicks' fix from mondo macabre
lady terminator v. jaka sembung bawa golok gak nyambung
starálfur !
youve seen them ? how did you stop yr heart from stop-beating ?
stop beating, stop breathin ! breath in for me, now !
cut yr hair and get a job
pretend you never go to graduate school
let alone harvard
im bored at lamont and everywhere else
or all souls
coz white men got no soul
thats how we got UB40
ah, the glory of early mid-'90s american indie !
it ran thru the moving walkways off my mind !
its just a possibility
all i ever wanted was to be yr spine

masalah kehidupan yang dapat anda atasi sendiri

youve got nothin. so u want everythin. badly. things are made of glass, cut yr hands when u try to hold on. even if that. but please. who would give a flyin fuck. if u put everythin into each word as though the elision of a letter a syllable a word wd fit thick leather gloves on both yr bloodied hands. still bleedin. as if if u cd feel the smooth kidskin linin. as if that wd stop the bleedin. as if u can accelerate scabbin turn wounds into scars w/out anyone seein. as if were supermen putting on capes in steamin noo yawk alleys. please. no one gives. the fuck flyin. so we must. it was great it wasnt all we had. when we cd go for a walk when touchthesky told us it was too cold to go outside. when everythin was all i remembered it to be. and do u remember when we sat on the green bench in bondi. watchin the micropigeons of saltwater licks fly horizontal across our face hit us on the cheek then we turn the other and let them hit us flush in the face ? yes we remember. though we hv forgotten the reason why we shd. yes wed sit. wed sit and cross our legs for warmth. and protection from the crowd. everyone in the history of man has always needed protection from the crowd. pull the coarse brown handed down teddy coat over our body the hardcopy the flâneur out of the deep square pocket. wed read of the night peter climbed the coathanger and wonder what it all meant when we didnt know what it meant we went back to the words and tried to work out what happened on the page. small white and heavy like a sword. then we didnt know about duende and everythin was real. and the paintbox had not exploded over our heads and yr hair was black and mine/mind too. wed sit like that for an hour. stealin repose from the pages by restin one thumb between the page we had just read and one we were. still. rest them like a dead pigeon on one knee. wed squint to let more in. the way we read about once since everythin is academic to us and move our head like the lighthouses lamp. slow needless to say. then dont say it. i saw the mans backpack then his toes then his sandals once white now black. the night was black too but what i didnt know. it was just about to get blacker. what i did know somewhere in all the black theres. nothin. 

Pas l'éducation sentimentale

- now i can live without this this distilling of a day thru the cheap (less than aus$10,000) coffee machine of me brain. no more waiting waiting waiting for the splotch splutter swish of dirty brown half quarter no truths into the cracked coffee single-serve cups of me minimum opus.

- i can live without this. we used to hate this whole thing didnt we. it used to hurt even on good days. even when you were writing something true it felt like you were lying thru yr teeth. none of the Hem smugness you wanted so much.

- it was like Flaubert in Madame Bovary. there was no meaning in my life (i shdve really just killed myself) so i tried to create another world in order to destroy what i had (whatever meaning it had left).

- it was like, 'mme bovary put an extra corner on her husband's dilapidated tricorn hat.' this line is extraneous (like the extra corner). 'tis written to convey to you a nothingness the emptiness of life in Yvetot (or wherever) the feeling of breathing in a vacuum. how cd such things exist? how cd it be written without emptying the soul of the writer (assuming he did have at least a half one)? but even if he did he wdve lost it now gone forever in the very act of writing that goddam sentence.

- it feels like the sentence shdve been written in chalk and rubbed off after reading.