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A teenage lovedeath processed by a Party City conveyor belt into the arms of a crime-drama ********, or at the very least dreaming of becoming an industrial residue. Man, my visions are healthier these days, instead of going on guilt-trips I ponder the eternal question of why girls want to be murdered. Not so sure about the title here anymore since it was morphed from a siamese twin separation. Mmm, not all poetry yet but semi-coherent, that's something to like!

"Locked in Golden Sauce"

When did
the cogs of adventure
come to depend on
a flow of attention

-getting?
Sucking her flaxen back
over a "thoughtful"
levee necklace falls,

nudged then
by pool toys with elbows)
helping fear bubble
like cheap coroners are loved)

at last,
wonderful steel basin,
blue ammonia small;
what fun
an aboveground mop holds

for the boys who find her
who declare her deflation, a "flow"

Maybe you have one
too,
floating belly-up
in a bucket of loans)
Under pulsing jets of laughter.
For shopping, The Avenue
has plenty of parking
on the marshy soil.
Excellent absurdism as usual. Do you resent that classification? I think it's high praise, because it's a difficult style to write in, always toeing the line between word salad and coded metaphor, with the goal being evoking a feeling word by word rather than stanza by stanza. I'm always wondering what word you'll utilize next, and that's what makes it compelling to read.
Deacon Nuno
Excellent absurdism as usual. Do you resent that classification? I think it's high praise, because it's a difficult style to write in, always toeing the line between word salad and coded metaphor, with the goal being evoking a feeling word by word rather than stanza by stanza. I'm always wondering what word you'll utilize next, and that's what makes it compelling to read.


Nope, I don't mind being identified in that way at all. Silliness is probably the main thing that keeps me from becoming too morbid; another thing is if you mill around in the wastebasket long enough, you start to discover things of worth. I think Stone Temple Pilots had the right method when they talked about fooling around in the garage with all their stupidest ideas until somehow they ended up with great songs.

Thank you for the praise; I guess for me it's always a challenge in terms of how much control I should exercise over any given word or passage. There's always some messiness or "loss" with the language-- sometimes it's me wanting to do too much in a confined area. At other times though I run into some social commentary looking back at me. I have a little footnote written down somewhere with "heaven" or "afterlife" next to the aboveground mop. Making a connection like that is startling to me, as if to say that wisdom is cowering shellshocked in even the most junky and mind-rotted of topics. Once such a world is made, it sets the stage for a clean-up. Absurdism is a powerful weapon in this way; it can change horrible things by making them not quite real, which denies them their ability to intimidate.

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