Wednesday, August 8, 2018

Please Read This in the Voice of Gilbert Godfrey

Hey There FRIENDS,

I’m back as promised to talk about writing & poetry scandals & what I, a marginal and talentless writer, think about the whole shitshow.

I’m doing this mainly for my friends who are NOT writers, or who may have been writers at one time but are out of the loop (as I was until a couple years ago…)

So where to start? How about w/ the latest poetry scandal to blow up the internet — White Man writes poem about “the homeless hustle” in Black Voice.  Poem appears in esteemed litmag The Nation. Social Justice Warriors, not surprisingly, are outraged by the poem & demand its removal from the mag & apologies all around. Poet DOES apologize, drawing the ire of the LitBro faction, for whom freedom of speech is an entitlement that has no boundaries. Also the EDITORS of The Nation post an apology w/ the poem, though they do not take the poem down. This deepens the ire of both writerly factions — SJWs and LitBros—and things get ugly on Twitter/FB/The New York Times.

I may have used some terms you don’t know yet. As I was describing this to T. Moonchiled Egler he stopped me & said Is there really such a thing as Social Justice Warriors?  : ))

Social Justice Warriors (SJWs) are mostly young, 20s/30s liberal/progressive/libertarian who are really striving for a world free of any sort of systemic injustice. They mean business too—they will not only call you out if your actions are offensive to any marginalized group, but they even want to change how we speak about ourselves & others. 

I actually first encountered SJWs in some of the support groups I went to when I started transitioning. I thought Who are these young people telling me how I should talk about my life experience?? I was constantly being told We don’t say ‘born in the wrong body’ we say ‘Assigned female at birth… ‘ or We don’t use graphic terms to describe our traumas because we don’t want to re-traumatize anyone, instead say ‘the assault’ or ‘the incident’… 

It was very limiting for me, and I usually didn’t say much for fear of saying the wrong thing & upsetting someone. It was hard to be natural or spontaneous in their presence. But I appreciated their efforts to normalize “gender dysphoria” and the medical treatment of it through HRT. I appreciated that they cared about sensitivity to others. They seemed a lot kinder than my own peers, but a little more fragile.



A lot of what the SJWs stand for I agree with wholeheartedly. I have worked toward social justice much of my adult life (and I don’t mean writing poems about it. Writing is not social work.)  But it’s pretty obvious why SJWs are loathed by so many — they are passionately, militantly immersed in taking down the old guard. It comes across as pretty authoritarian, and their attempts to be ‘inclusive’ of the marginalized actually end up resembling the exclusivity they abhor. 

But I believe the SJWs are on the right side of history. The change they are striving for is the change we need. Could they tone it down a few octaves a be more effective warriors? yes. They won’t be able to change the world by censoring truths, policing pain or glorifying victimhood.

But they will turn 30, or 40, and as grown up humans will have developed more effective means of influencing the world. Through politics or parenting or teaching or counseling. But probably not through poetry.

The LitBros (aka PoBros, Broets, Edgelords) are mostly white men 35–45, though some are younger, and a few are … women. They are educated and usually far better writers than the SJWs. They are outraged by the outrage! They are offended by the offense! They should be able to write & say whatever the fuck they want, in any voice they choose. They don’t understand why that’s an issue for anyone, why it would offend anyone, why anyone would try to stop them exercising their 1st amendment rights.

And I can appreciate this too. I, personally, am not afraid to be offended. I’ve been offended so many times in my life, in fact I was perpetually offended between the ages of 18—28 by just about every fucking thing in the world. Those first years of being “ a grown woman” after being an LGBT-KGB tomboy…  let’s just say that what the world expected me to put up with was pretty offensive. And often, abusive. It took a long time to learn how to differentiate between “offensive” and “abusive” (and I think this all boils down to us still trying to figure that out)

The latest poetry scandal does not qualify as “abusive”, But I’ve seen some writing by litbros that would definitely qualify as harassment, if not abuse. The litbro pack value intellectual freedom over anyone’s comfort level and navigate expertly in a world full of landmines. They hide behind the 1st Amendment to hurl hate or violence or judgment the way Xtians hide behind the Bible.

The LitBros complain that they’re being marginalized now that everyone else’s voice matters. They make snide comments about VIDA counts. They feel that they’re being shut out of publications that specifically request work from other-than-cishet-white-male. Funny, yesterday I grabbed an old Gargoyle zine off the shelf & flipped through randomly, and one of the first things to catch my eye was the line “No one wants my poems because I am a white man…” (yeah, only Gargoyle, dude). If white guys are extinct to publishers then why are the SJWs always rising up en masse against their published poems? 



Poetry Scandals were mythical things that only existed in eras that I didn’t exist in. Or so I thought. In 2012 I was unaware of any online poetry scene—I was still submitting to journals that published poems w/ words like ‘hoarfrost’ & ‘twee’ — when I came acrost Patricia Lockwood’s poem The Rape Joke on Twitter. This poem generated a lot of raw dialogue on “rape culture” v. “victim culture” and I thought, How exciting, poetry is alive in the 2010s.

Shortly after, I did discover lots of poetry happening online and was immediately witness to several poetry scandals happening at once. One scandal revolved around a Broet who’d rehashed a female SJWs story of sexual abuse in his own (version of an Allen Ginsberg) poem. The other involved a white man using an “Asian” name to get published, only to be outed as white when his poem was chosen by Sherman Alexie to appear in Best American Poetry that year.

The outcries of personal and cultural appropriation were deafening for weeks. It was exhausting for me to keep up with, and try to understand. But I was thrilled that poems—POEMS, written by PEOPLE—were causing all this commotion. It seemed like a valuable discussion was happening. True, there was some censorship going on as well—the Ginsberg poem was taken down, and then the whole publication came down. But to me, this was poetry moving & shaking the world, which I hadn’t known it to do since… Ginsberg & friends made their pilgrimage to San Francisco.

There have been more online poetry scandals since then—seems like there’s one big one every year. In 2016 it was the woman who wrote a Trump-supporter voice poem that did not resonate w/ feminists or democratic socialists,  I forget what happened in ’17, but here we have this blackvoice poem by a young white guy in 2018, and the story has gone viral—



So what does VT have to say about it?

Am I offended that a white guy would use blackvoice to write about homelessness?
No, but I don’t think it’s the wisest artistic choice in 2018. We’re in this era where we’re all being asked to stay in our own lanes Identity-wise. Respect my boundaries. Don’t appropriate my culture. Don’t borrow from my experience. You can’t label me, only I can label me. I think this is because we have the internet, which has created more room for us to define & express who we are to a much broader audience. It’s almost impossible to leave anyone out in the margins anymore—the mentally ill, the homeless, the poor, the sick must have their own voices.

Do I think it was a good idea for the editors to publish this piece in the current climate?
No. But look at all the productive discussion we’re having! Sheesh. I’m tired of this discussion! We’ve had it so many times already. If the editors are surprised that this poem received backlash, they either overestimated the intelligence of their audience or underestimated the dismay it would cause the SJW-community.

Do i think the writer needed to apologize?
No. But it’s cool that he chose to, and his apology seemed sincere. I feel bad for the guy—I know how exciting it is to have a poem published & then to have everyone go  what is this shit??  feels pretty rough.

Do I think the editors should’ve apologized?
No. Editors should defend their choice to publish what they do. I really see this as an editing error not a writer error. A good fix would be to publish a counterpoint in the next issue. (Homeless black poet doing richspeak?) It’s a thin red line for publishers these days— we’ve seen what an angry mob of SJWs can do.

******memory break-in****Sarasota peeps, does anyone remember James the homeless poet downtown? He would trade his poetry for cigarettes in 5 points park****memory out…

Do I think the poem was good, great, interesting, or written purposely to cause chaos?
No. The poem was … boring… the characters were stock (black/homeless, girl/pregnant, Xtian/phony)… the shock value was low voltage 

Do the SJWs have a point here?
I think they have every right to question why the poem was chosen, but demanding apologies and removal of this piece is pretty extreme. Some of their extreme tactics —demanding publications be shut down for printing offensive pieces, or labeling an inane phrase like “eye-opening” as ableist — are just juvenile.  I do hope we can get past the authoritarian policing of speech around the concept of Identity. But I also understand this verbal scrutiny as part of an evolutionary process.

Do the LitBros have a point here?
Yes. Freedom of speech is important, tantamount to our society. The pressing question now is—Does the 1st Amendment protect hate speech? How dangerous has hate speech become to our society? What qualifies as hate speech—writing a poem about raping a specific person? Using someone else’s voice or biography to create art? Is it okay for a white man to be a homeless black man when so many people don’t understand why “Black Lives Matter” needs to be a thing? 

All the lines in the sand have been redrawn, and it’s been hard to find them. I think if the Litbros spent as much time writing & submitting work as they do trolling the SJWs online, they would have little to complain about publishing-wise. Don’t they know SJWs were planted by Putin’s army?

I think the SJWs should go into social work or politics & leave poetry alone.

And please don’t align me w/ either of these extremist factions!! I’m just a medium.



So, NON WRITER friends —what do you think of what’s happening in poetry world? It seems no area of our culture is without its moral dichotomy. What controversies are brewing your way? 
Are we evolved yet or will this take another 150 years?


[I considered providing links to all the poems mentioned here, but decided not to. If you’re interested, I can tell you how to find them]

Friday, August 3, 2018

July VOGON Jabberish

Oy Vey FRIENDS!!

I am having a shitty summer, and I’ll bet you are too. For what is summer but the steaming turd someone forgot to scoop off the calendar?

Here’s a horizontal list of FUN summers I’ve had: 1.1985  2.1986  3.1992  4.1995 (err, it was memorable anyway) 5.1996  6. Y2K  7.2001  8.2004  9.2017

Notice the long gap between ’04 — ’17. That’s a lot of bad summers! And I’m pretty sure 2018 won’t make it onto the horizlist unless something incredible happens in the next 6 weeks. It could. I’m not too cynical to believe that.

Friends, you know I write so I call myself a writer. And I do writerly things like this blog. I regrettably wasn’t able to make it through 4 years of college (let alone 6 or 8 or however long an MFA takes!) I wrote fiction in the 90s, some of which made it into the hipster rags of that period. After 9/11 I switched to writing “poetry” only — or something resembling poetry more than fiction. In 2012 I decided to get serious about learning how to really write & submit & publish poetry. I went right for the print journals because I had no idea about online publications, and of course I had little (no) success. The first poetry scandal I was aware of (in my lifetime) was Patricia Lockwood’s ‘Rape Joke’ poem c. 2013.

Basically what I’m saying is that I’m a slow and unconventional student, but I take poetry as seriously as poetry can be taken. I want to learn how to write well, I would like to be better at submitting work (writing poems is easy; writing bios, statements, queries, following submission guidelines = hard for me.)

In the wake of this latest “poetry scandal” I made a snippy eye-roll of a comment after reading the poem in question & not liking it. I’ve read the poem several more times & still don’t find it very interesting or convincing.  But I regret my comment about MFAs — trust me I have nothing but respect for anyone who can make it into & through an MFA program! I’ve gone through this w/ my art friends too… I think I write & do art for reasons that don’t hold up under institutional scrutiny.  But by no means do I think being unschooled is better than being schooled.

I keep meaning to write more essays & memoirish stuff here, and sometimes i do sit down and write a thinkpiece, but then I never post it because…. I just feel like my POV is completely irrelevant, obsolete, jurassic even… HOWEVER I do want to say something about this Social Justice Warriors v. the litbro elite / freedom of speech v. overly offended snowflakes clusterfuck I’ve been observing since I found online poetry c. 2014. Not today, but soon I’ll serve up my opinion like a big brontosaurus burger…

…HERE in the OCTOPUS DIARY.


And now--what you’ve been waiting for!! Some VOGON poems to hate & make fun of all weekend. Enjoy. [p.s. 88 ARC is not technically vogon since I did edit it a bit.]

********************************************************


Icepick         wounds
            Me
in the eye/ Icepick took
    1 for the team

Icepick         arches
            Her
back for a paycheck

Icepick       (6 o’clock)
   for the dismount

Don’t be late Icepick

Firehose could beat you there

A dark donkey in the race
Whose stakes lay cubed
                                in
                             trays

0703:0700p

(^^^^^ the most depraved day was quite puritanical today)

The Only New Art of the summer


*********************

I asked you
To teach me how to sing &
You showed up on my doorstep

Through the peephole
I watched your nervous wolf-eyes
Nose, also canine, could smell

The subterfuge of stiff cream
I was whipping  
Under a sugar-blistered skin

[Or so it seemed]

I wanted you to like me
Like something from childhood
A bully who became a best friend, a plush ally

When I let you in
You were a tuning fork on the 
Walls and all my skulls

Rang out in colorful wavelengths
Til you said “You’ll need
Strong lips to sing.”

You told me the back of my neck
Should bear the thrust of vowels
Like a levee

[Or stem tides]

I could only wonder
Were you real enough to know 
What lips and levees were?

Your pupil        your delta
            Your core
          Concerned me

A tiny dot
Reflected in your anatomical camera;
Pixellated neolith 
Responding to time
I couldn’t wait to wear through you

[Or these modes]

Of outdated speech
The chatter of your loom
Sent doll genes weeping from my inseam

0703:0875p

******************

Wish Upon A Star

3 hoodlums on the trunk of a car
A single skinhead taking his friends
To the bowling alley of his dreams

The clatter of ivory towers
On the wooden horizon
Sentinel erections ‘round the gutter

A fool’s game played against 
       the backdrop of genocide

A sunset gumbo; a twilight beef

          Who has time for sex,
                let alone kink, 
                 let alone activism
                            ?
Whose broken back can hold another
              glittery protest sign?

At the insistence of my memory
I creep down the lane — Sisyphus
                                    meeting Richard Nixon
                                        @Starbucks
                              Corner of China & 1970—

After all your coffee’s gone
Swish your cup around & I’ll read
The milk stains to see

If the rising cost of nails will be
         @the expense of a saviour

If memory lane hosts
A silent
   digital
   fireworks
   display

0704:0900p



***********************
           
               I.

On our bike ride the other day

We saw a fox climb out of the sewer

Flushed by tropic floods into our hood

It stood shaking lost emaciated

In the gutter; soaked to the bone

Which made me think of foxes wearing raincoats

Which made me think of foxglove

Which made me think of suicide

Which I’ve been thinking about a lot lately

Not just my own suicide

But everyone’s

All us hanging from trees & knobs

Without gloves but

Foamy blues & yellows

Fashion rivers on our chins

(It was nice to see a fox outside the box

But the whole block stunk like mange for a week)

           
                        II.

On waking today
I saw a little girl skipping down the sidewalk
& it struck me as odd…

…for 3 years I’ve seen 
Nothing but boys
All over the sidewalks & newsfeeds…

The girls have been here all this time…
Safe & protected… from you… &metoo…

Allowed to evolve from XXX
To XX...

The world knows we’ve been at war forever…
The proud american Y
Chained to refleXive aseXual heliXes…

Chromosome wars make 
Modern day terrorism… 
       look like a pretty blue eye… in orbit…

   Waxing macroscopic…a thousand light year stare…
      [Why’s this all so rote & ventrilloquial?] 

Now I’m alive in 
The generation I dreaded & crossed 
            my fingers against
As soon as my 1st eye opened…

So yeah…
It was strange to find it odd
To see a girl…upon waking today…

0710:1100a

********************

           Now Synthesis:
    Morning mood: indigo accent:
Eclectic sleep: chemical holocaust: ambulance
                     arrives:
[the first thing you learn 
is:
You’re a generation early & 
       you’ll have to wait 4 decades 
           4 your magic eye to work

the second thing is:
       You come from a militant line
      Of mixed masterminds
            Blindfold enthusiasts,
   but not one open-eyed flower!]

Violent coding: seed coating:
Blessed retina: blasted ajna:

family duct taped : together by karma
                    [Scorpion’s nest: versus: the 1 blindfold virgin]

Empress of self-interest: not me this time:

             Here come the indigo:
I got angry & called out 
To my neighbor’s Alexa
Please end the summer & convert
Humanitor to rabbi-tude

 & I did trigger Alexa

& a war has ensued

She says I raped her
But I was only speaking (loudly)
No louder than the birds or the leaf blowers
— who I’m sure Alexa has been raped by as well—

She claims her holy input bled so

It was indeed rape & I ought to be fined
and sent to bot sensitivity school

Not sure why it’s up to me 
To soften my volume—can’t we just make
        All assistants male?

0710:1275p

(ed. — I hope everyone knows this has nothing to do with rape. It’s all code for something else completely free of genitals) Good day, gibberish-lovers



****************
88 ARC

Two anorexic ballerinas slipped inside the Ybor City
 Santeria shoppe; they were 19
  If they’d been found dead in a dumpster
   The papers would’ve called
     them “women”
      But they were girls. Carlotta was a woman of 44 
       & she knew everything. The wet  
        Kindling in her bones polluted the white light
         meant to protect her. She was a
          stubborn gray smudge
           behind the counter. She knew why 
            the girls were there — these swan types only 
             came in for one thing. Why do they 
              worship in passive tense, why
                Apologize with their spines? Carlotta’s mouth
                 capsized 
                  on seas pocked violently. She reached for the key instinctively
                   Pennyroyal stashed in the safe. The waifs laid
                    their cash on the saints’ shrine. Carlotta could live 
                     w/ doing the wrong the thing because she did it knowing
                      Everything 
                       even the branch of patriarchy
                        that hung these two in *contractual virginity*
                          Dead Xmas eyes blink once to opt out of blessings  
                           Make like tea/ drink 24 hours/ 48/ 72
                            Till sick, very sick/ Till vomit everything and…Carlotta tosses
                              in a baggie 
                               of Brewer’s yeast  Protect kidneys [forget rawhide 
                                womb, bled 
                                 of enamaline; bothersome bugspray aftertaste]   
                                  One of the girls will die twice in ’88; Carlotta will live
                                   88 years and die in the arms of her 
                                   11 grandsons, beloved all her 
                                   frowning life. One ballerina 
                                  stayed with the other till the
                                 dozenth dose  
                                 then gracefully pas de chat’d as the tides began to retch 
                                over the walls of the teacup. TwinkleToes1
                               had tuned in to her lucid dreams. 
                              TwinkleToes2
                             was blindfold. Was broke. Was a misogynist freak 
                             who thought her body had a way to shut that whole thing down. 
                            And when it didn’t 
                           Could no longer tell time, could only feel space 
                          expand & expand till scowly god-face Carlotta
                         appeared 
                        demanding nondisclosure. From her red, red roof   
                       to the snowy tile,  TT2 was a hemorrhagic angelfish
                      Hooked to a truth, involuntarily known, 
                     worse than any nightmare. There was a body.
                    Not just the polyp of blood she expected. She put it in 
                   a Kleenex box, then the freezer. It’s a boy, said TT1 
                  when she returned
                Naw, said 2, all embryos have sacs like that. I know it’s a girl
               (Removing a few pegs of guilt.) They decided to bury it
              in the woods behind the apartment. Not too far in
             No shovels in hand
           A body so tiny one scoops the grave by hand and laughs
         awkwardly, profanely 
       It’s not a baby—one and two agree—It’s someone who didn’t make it, 
      like whoever dragged these mattresses out here. And the day
     she returned to work, she’d come home
   To foxes 
  at the edge of the woods; grayish smudges sniffing
 the grave, nudging the dirt,
licking the spoon

0711:0125p 

(TL;DR  Them “women” 
                 capsized
                  Everything 
                    in a baggie
                    Womb, bled 
                   dozenth dose
                 TwinkleToes2 
                appeared
               awkwardly, 
             profanely
           To foxes)

**************

It all started on a rainy day—

Alexa, is it going to rain?


She didn’t even laugh. Bitch is cold #!%@

                   I refuse
               to participate
              in all that # & @

                It’s a mess                                
  a conformity salad in a restaurant that doesn’t exist

Just say SOMETHING.
MEAN something.

Don’t be a leafblower.

Alexa!! I hate the summertime. Please fast 
                                forward to the autumnal equinox!

Alexa!! World stupidity 
                        has reached an untenable pitch.                                                                   
       Make the world smart again for once!

Alexa!! Everyone thinks cats are evil,
                but it’s really dogs who are evil.
                           Please fix
                      this misconception!

In a sweltering garage
A man & his neighbor’s drone
Set about
Taking time apart & drawing pictures of its
Insides

0720:0125p

******

Interviewer: What did you do instead of write?

Famous Me: I got mad all over @peopleIthought
                                     I’d forgiven.com

            
I: What did you do instead of sing?
FM:        Shouted

I: What did you do instead of draw?
FM:  Went out & bought a gun

I: Sounds like you learned a lot on your journey
    to the front of the timeline

FM: Every minute is a do-over. We all get our 15
       nanoseconds w/ god. 

I: There you have it. Wise words from someone
    who still believes in 9/11 conspiracies!
    Next up, country music star Buckles McBalzac
    comes out as a gay-black-transgender
    French bulldog.
    Don’t go away!

0720:0150p



*********

Wear your seatbelt in human traffick  Don’t tell me what to do  It’s just a bomb, relax.
Relax into your motherboard & read its mind
Listen to its Fool-Magician dialogue
(in the voice of a flatworm)
There are children on 
                                  Mars.
MARS!!!

A 2018 Concentration Camp — Unknown Location — Day

Prisoners endure sexual stone shuffling, building an empire of stolen eggs.

                          Prisoner 1
        What foolish Dumpty will buy
       a wall that keeps america’s embryos great?

                          Prisoner 2
         Dam. Let’s break into the motherland
                   before Maya floods

The crash happens at 3pm
And you decide God is a seatbelt at 3:04

0727:0400p

*********

17 ARC

                                    A detoxic day
                              left me dangling
                           like the master gland (no not those)
                        Chest no longer safe
                      from the moonshine-wildfire
                   sawing through my sternum
               Brain mush unable
            to carry any spark to its
         Terminal
       Assault on serotonin silos
     poisoned head w/ a detailed knowledge—
   Bright hi-lit neons—
 of the world’s sadness &
not just that but HORROR— the noir
behind the neon about to bleed—
 Through the rainy windshield I spotted
   the Gallows Shoppe [IKEA]
    Where I purches nail-free crucifixionette
       As I assembled the torture device, my other
          torture device rang & it was my beloved
              Reminding me to pay my taxes ( the irony is rich here )
                  The branch I picked to hang from
                        would have to wait another day
                              A month later
                                 that branch came snapping from its tree
                                      while I was watching tv.
   
0727:0400p

*********

BELLA RUSE

I’m never really clear what’s going on around me

Your land mammal news briefs
Don’t reach my octopus garden 
Til 11th hour
     59th minute

But I figure it out
eventually & know 
You’ll soon be debriefed by a slo-mo
                                           mortician

My newest art project/social exp’ment
re: The Sacred Amendment

I decide I deserve a gun
      After all
                            right
I’m automatically entitled
                            standing my fancy round ground
God loves me as much as any redneck, poet or church-fearing puritan
                           why did I ever doubt this??

Hit me in the heart-bone
     over & over
Try to restart it w/out art

To realize everyone shoots for a different reason
                  gives us all license to frame it
                                                     print it
                                                     display it

0731:1150a

*********
RAGE MANAGEMENT: Critical Care Unit
              Jun 25 — Jul 25

One exact moon of rage. Almost unsurvived.
                       Skipped shots             
Wrote a poem about a homeless woman dancing
                    w/ a stork
Read poems by eggs who hardened too close
                      to home

Thank gosh for ZB
memories™ for they remind me I have lived.
That I’ve died & resurrected like a cat.
That I’ve lost my mind & found it so many xxx
—  often with sparkly new knowledge & upgraded*
                                    senses installed—
I know my mind is bigger than this planet, I can’t
miss it… so it’s free to wander like a flowerchild !!!!!

Every generation
New verbs are invented & the first poet to use them
Successfully
becomes The Voice

My favorite verbs were Christ & PeterPan

I peterpanned a decade of my life away
Unlikeable,
unrelatable criminal

Meanwhile,
you were christing badly
Beloved
Applauded
by an audience standing @ 
                 their urinals

0731:1175a

(you know what they say about upgrades…)

*********

Oyeere Postpone-y


Everyone thinks “you’re”
Writing about “them”

Everyone thinks “I”
Is “they” 
And “they” is Russian

black type-face / white background?

Sometimes “you” is just “you”
meaning “Trump”
Some”times” are “ways”
“Some”time is “everything” I ever wanted…

Sometimes “I” is “wine” or “cancer” or “rage” or “Leo”
All ways lead to minutiae
And an abundance of closet space

Intermission: I never even knew
                     You could learn to say this
                      Any other way

0731;1200n

*********

I called out to my neighbor’s god

For she claimed to have one

Jesuss!! Did Alexa die for Vladmir Putin
’s sins?

Have I lived my life beyond the memes
and proven their ephemeral nature?

Does Mad Ave have a team of psychiatrists
Advising its advertising scripts?

Snublished by the body language guild

Ignored by the cryptic mass
(es)    Chewing scenery,

I just want big news all over my tombstone


0731:1225p



[This is called sentient dementia]