Against Good Stewards

The preppiest of experimenters, dipping a loafer into nonlinear conceptualism, are thoroughly hired by academia to promulgate tautological mystique so pedagogy can stay pedagogy, so writing becomes further noncreative and aloof by its own democratically misaligned (demotic horseshit) system of usury and dried-out agnotology (which is why these people hate language and mistake lingual torque for fraud, because fraud forged them, the handshake is all they know, their peers have replaced art, and networking a theory, joke, statement, or hot take is today’s thickest, most popular fiction) – metonymy (catachresis (or good writing before we were told otherwise, before energy was outlawed, before amplification was toweringly misidentified), unsellable prolixity, natural talent, books before 1900 (Bierce’s “army of words escorting a corporal of thought” died in the desert), or one fucking poem) ain’t love or play or even faith here, it’s a paycheck (to hell with money and caste, I mean how dependencies such as status produce a deceased soul), a mindset with 48 laws, the meal that escorts them (fancy or not), and god help the runny-bottomed young when yuppies (broke without coke millennial ones) get hired in droves by high schools because there’s nobody left who cares about words, just blanked-eyed doctors’ sons, sadistic IQ bots prodding an experiment to hearken the clapback in their stethoscopes (prolepsis without a condom), the theorem ad infinitum, insisting you’re a gay lady because you like certain sounds (and aren’t you, though – yet, more unpaid / unemployed, yes? for politics and other silly animadversions…). We’ll all be part of the same grocery list soon, allowed to fuck with the order of items once and awhile, if you feel appropriately kinky. Better not twist a verb or extend a metaphor: errand boy might crash his van. But the already existing wholesale dismissal and defalcation (except for two living jerkoffs) of something as outdated as poetry, or poetic verve in fiction (componential arrangements (euphonies of the balletomane!) without an overarching caper to diddle a reader’s back-mind), isn’t enough for these types. Aptitude that specific threatens the mediocre – not in reality, or financially (heaven forbid, none of this matters, of course, nor will it be read): across their guilty consciences, in light of highly gifted whipping boys McCarthy and Melville – true enemies of the academic, the conniving, backbiting toiler, vanquishers of literature’s middlemen and indolent diarists, the fence-straddling critic.

In a time when anyone left wing should not be taken seriously unless they begin by weepily apologizing for the amount of art their goddamn sports side (remember epic spankster Louis CK dismissing politics as sports then shilling for Hilary a year later (like every writer?) has been censoring for well over ten years now, they’ve converted my out of touch old school apolitical (at my expense in neither direction) art-for-art-sake stance into opportunistic poltroonery. I hated the left from birth, by instinct, being lumped there, confused, under early century supposition due to misperceived censorships of religion, and the right hates me on sight, fairly enough. Your toilet tissue crypto-left etcetera, woke for show, moderate at dinners, right leaning behind closed doors (uninspired nihilists), benefitted by both cubbyholes hither and yon, are now teaching kids a kind of balance that’ll keep them tied to the stained sheets they probably belong in anyway (they have fallen for their victims and vice versa, kissing victimhood in bulk, meanwhile, clandestinely, oxymoronically, as usual, awaiting cover to kick the next forgotten fashion in its downed jewels, a fine résumé of safely-placed snark, DMV cruelty perpetuated by squatting through too many post-graduate courses).

The world’s been making me obsolete for so long I feel justified feeding it a little poison in return, by the earful or the rearful, glad to never be a citizen, so warn your corny kin on my behalf to speak as plain as possible if they ever want to do less than rent. What I do is not twee, it’s a death sentence (if lucky). It’s properly, more accurately coined as clang association, clanging, disfigured thought, vehemently acute psychosis, and since “nothing to lose” is its fucking priority, henceforth granted outright, why prod it? Easier to tie the straight-jacketed man’s shoelaces together with an endlessly supported stance against minor, but long-established (dismissing that history behind a fickle canon) wordplay (see Joe Rogan’s borderline illiterate literalness employed against David Mamet for further instruction). Moderate diffuseness avoiding dry abstraction through frisky periphrasis was honked a sponsorship (in my day) through Sega’s 2D beat em ups and blood codes. As I insist, writers who played the gorgeously scored, further perverse, pastiche of Double Dragon, Final Fight and Renegade – Streets of Rage, and others as inappropriate, probably took to poetry, smashing by the unit, glorying in the sprite, sound over sense. Those who kept to SNES roleplay table game plotters, organizing detached attacks, probably want to tell me why I deserve to live no life for how I write (mission accomplished, cunts – duped by my naiveté, I enjoy different styles, including sometimes a plain plot when I’m not being insulted nonstop by writers pretending they’re of a dying breed – the simple sentence (the most overpublished, read, and rewarded lit imaginable – I don’t envy what you have (our internecine envies), I just want you to share in the suffering (might improve your work))). Their echolalia is generously benign when done as satire, like the rest of these job fair bang bussers, like the best of either console blown into.