3: “set up for failure“
30 days/poetry
Anthony is wanting to do better — this time, he’ll write
the novel, take apart his hand and sell it, two-pace; but who
can function as muse, eternally pregnate the idea and
watch it birth — bear with me here, it’s some thread
im getting from the Romantics. Anthony explains it, long
detail, in twitter thread. You think you know what it’s like
to trade out skulls, souls: sadly you are incubator, kept in blue-
daze TV frame, the blinds like drooping eye-lashes
never meeting yours, he is folded over the computer, semi-
colon shape, and his stooped-head is the punctuation
dot — if he schlunks deep, goes into the purge-world kept
nervously online, someone explains it better — sadly
he has not read enough medieval scholasticism to properly
argue his point, unlike the other guy, and he slinks back
irl to try, read logic and micro-philosophy; sadly his brain
zooms out — magic screen always hung, eye-level — some sick
girl-poet somewhere, draining him as animus; he can’t
get through the chapter he can’t make the
point; nevermind the novel. Anthony with slender white
hands, draped in his mother’s house: which is all of the
world, maw of nowness, eating any possible projection alive.
I can’t possibly — I couldn’t — I can
not get any deeper inside his head, the cost of his keyed-up rib
cage, the weird smells, post-pubescent, of his long slightly-
haired legs — it is funny, almost, how long imaginary boy can stretch
over the mind, but violently breaks apart when I reach
out to touch him: Anthony, skin and flesh, lives and dies
in vampire-LA, he keeps himself clean and pure; mass 1x per
week and confession 2x per six weeks, he
will never finish the argument in the twitter GC; he asks his
mother (and her cult, leeched out around him, big
pedophile eyes), to stop at the place of his head — take stock
of his manhood and let him be free: the sick-
girl poet, in meta self-pleasure, licks & spits him out: finally
he says I have every right to kill you, you bitch
(no way other than make it violent female
narrative-fantasy)
he works himself into the release I touch PHYSICAL HAND and
(bleed out bleed out son)
everything is gone but we are still here
the last pavilion 