August 30, 2009
in Category: Doom mooD, Noise poem, Weird Garden
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It works without feeling stealing its pride, if you try and hide you will fall wide of the Marx, shag the shark in sheep’s clothing, roaming the hills till the fin. I should sell all my belongings, for I belong to my belongings, bent like a five-pound note around them, I wrote to the mint and gave them a hint but they ignored me.

Do they ignore all bank managers of beloved volumes, quaint and ancient? Investment is a gambol of virility and sometimes sterility, I stake my claim in name to the monument of the idle, the idol of idolatry, idealistic and indoctrinated with kitsch car advertising. One day when the true nature of our lives is understood this form of fashionable fascism will be swept aside so brush up on your etiquette, the race to the top of the ice-cream ski slope will meet a sticky end.

For wafer thin sentiment succeeds in spreading cynicism but all too clever jokes seldom slip a spanner in the spokes of social specialisation. I’m resigned to remind you only of the absurdity of modernity.


Cassette concepts connoisseur

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