on the train... receding, receding, receding.... (sniff, sniff)

Yes, sadly, Blake Butler passed away last night. The omnipresent electronic friend-of-everyone expired in an insomnia-induced rage of language and, like the Monty Python parrot in that famous sketch, is now an ex-Blake.

No more, alas, will schoolboy-grinning Blake Butler apocalypse creation in every sentence. No, strike that! In every phrase! No, strike that! In every syllable.

Make room now O Pantheon of young ones ripped from us far too early. Jesus, move over. Joan of Arc, a little to the left. Catullus, get your cock out of JFK’s ass. And give Blake some space. (and Seth, quit gawking).

And, Mr. Chicago pastry-delicacy chef get your ass in gear (so safe on earth) and start on something. Seth was a swan– what will you make of Blake? A peanut butter rabbit? A marshmallow weasel? A treacle beagle? woof-woof!

And just thinking now of Man’s Best-Friend I am bawling. Bawling, bawling, bawling.

What internet void has our great leader Blake Butler left? What cold and massive black hole of rubbish will form around his e-grave?

And, no, Blake Butler is not dead. This is a fake obit.

And I’d like to see more actually. Bring them on.

Greener (and sweeter) pastures now-- bawl, bawl, bawl,.....

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