excerpt from my book on how to destroy script.

Compliments for a Cubist
Subtracted midrange from the wheel of art of factual information: delete vowels.
Extricate critic from binary collage: montage, facsimile, veil, ghost, etcetera.
Neon Buddhist simile swerving syntax in tow and Tao.
The existentialist who’s name may be Eeyore believes the assumption of written character, once broken, only exists in cliché (“…just as long as one stays French and like remains the same as love,” the jackass mumbled.
Aimer:
“Fate has her funny way of being him,” Mary Shelly once wrote to Hans Christian Anderson. “Oxymoronic only when not been given the proper digestion that thought needs to produce narrative, and considering you‘ve not been brain washed already by Western thought.” She concluded in her letter a crude stick figured drawing of what she assumed he would not put word to image as being Frankenstein’s monster…A Freudian metaphor for her love for him before its time, that only history could rewrite.
Hans left Copenhagen in his latest of years for a warmer climate for the benefits of his health. Still longing for Kierkegaard to acknowledge his relevance, undoubtedly, but more his general existence as someone whom suffered loneliness and solitude the same as he: thinking, aberrations, hallucinations, being, nothingness…
In a poem written by a then teenage test tube baby made with the DNA of Hans, a forlorn shadow of existentialism peeks through verse in a way only Hans could tell a story…and in a strange twist, predicts the ghoulish acts that happened upon a lake in Indian Territory in the months of January and February of 1847...

[excerpt]
I’ve dreamt of many things:
A little prince, an ugly duck,
and Donner flesh to eat.

The Campfire Mouthpiece

Their sub-missive sent through landlocked
undertow. A burden rememberer game of
strategic triggers placed prewar memory in
fields unseen by eye.
Around the campfire mouthpiece: we slept
of better days. When once in love,
Who’s to say you’re not;
A strange pool of
Lo and op and forgetting, backward photographs
And negatives.
The Pool-loop never refreshes or calms down;
It’s soul, a vacuum of parallel, accents a user
too indiscriminately. A Wikipedic democracy
of half range. A starving child too spoiled to
eat all in front of them; Even a bone holds
influence and nourishment as any liar might
tell the truth sometimes.

Pariah Virology (excerpt) For the Polish president, Lech Kaczynski

The placard above the archway read:
Leviathan Graver
Established February 26th 1974
Non-issues, Humbug and Brainchildren.

Millennia of inbreeding for a colony of evil germs that deemed themselves "Germans" proved detrimental to the rest of the germ colony’s that inhabited earth when a man named Adolph Hitler self proclaimed his sapient species as a master race. Long before this proclamation Hitler and his Nazis(the Germans) were a single germ that exploded from a big bang along with all the other germs.

Humbug Undergrad
Brainchild Inspector Filmmaking Enthalpy
Retrieve overlord. Ponder caricature. Encrypt splice.

Every word is a dying star
Every star a living word
Every living thing a miracle
Every miracle an image
Every image now a word.

SPD RDR
Do you still seek decadence as if this watered down bohemia wasn’t ever saturated by information and technology spoiled halfwits gargling pubertal emotion with suicidal reverence positioned in places of influential power? I lost myself at decadence.
Oh, poor you still under the influence of, “It still matters” and “I make a difference”
“like the children are our future and like, like, like, I, like, like you know what I’m saying?”
This is the future?
A dear friend, a brother, once told me it was called, death by convenience. But what happens if it’s not? What if convenience becomes normal? When people become convenience? When convenience is nothing more than a waste of time? When I or you are nothing more than the space that fills up life? When you or I become like, well, like?

The Sylvan Postmaster

Conformist Spondylitis had taken over the village. Everybody was in a panic, dismembering each other with dull and rusty scrap metals found in garbage heaps as far as the world is round.
My girlfriend at the time that the panic broke out was playing two-dimensional video games from the Eighties: Asteroids, Tempest, TRON, Fucking Qbert. I tried to make her see what was happening around us, but she told me (mock girls voice) “If I look away from the screen I might lose a life”, so I left her there in the primary, and what I’ve found to be discriminatory, glow of basic shapes, in her peacock tested smeared globs of make-up caked face and clogged pores that would no doubt age here into a shriveled old bitter drag queen impersonator 40 years before her life would end, blinded by what the advertisers decided to market as beauty and sell to the masses of bitches with snuffed out skin cells that die screaming for oxygen to radiate a two-faced inner glow of a a jealous insecure know-it-all. Who the fuck want’s that?!?!?!