gjxljghlx (hannahtron5000) wrote in newprometheans,

I will pop this cherry

I feel very validated in writing a curt, gloriously garbled spitting out of the lungs kind of verse. I do not need to hack a thousand texts that have no visceral bearing beyond the realms of the academics (whose championing of such texts are the only reason they are remembered at all) in favor of reading the way the clouds unroll themselves for me, or how the stars arc and arc across the sky. Aren’t the stars a kind of text in and of themselves, part of a cosmic interpretation of the universe? Just reading them ourselves the stars become second hand knowledge, and if you add half a dozen scholars, theories, and articles soon the stars that poke out through the black are third or fourth or fifth removed, are a drawing of a story about stars told by our step-mother’s cousins third niece who heard it from a bunch of men down at the fire house, and now you have you it aren’t quite sure what to do with it anymore

I am done with reading long passages about power or socio-political regimist subversive dicoursive dictates. It's all hot air, all diarrhea of the mouth. From now on I am going to read the frogs bleat at the dusty moon, or how self-causally the world deposits the world, ad infinitum, without speculum, clock, microscope or any other rudimentary instrument designed as clarity but whose real purpose is obfuscation.
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