All pigshit is writing.
Pigs who try to extend their personal surveillance of selves in selves by extending that their ideas of conception on paper are somehow more valuable in method or even necessarily more coherent, especially in the terms of “telling a story,” are people.
This whole pigpen is a literary scene, especially the more massed people ever in this instant, which is more every instant unto some ending yet to come, we know, to the point there are more alive now breathing and eating and making language than even the sum total of all prior dead.
All those who have spirit in the vantage they predict on anything while snarling and smiling with beers or coffee at work for someone else or themselves and behind twitter feeds and comment boxes going holyfuck you for saying anything and how bored I am with your extensions and you are what you don’t inhibit and how could there possibly be so much grand or not at all good words to say about any object ever or all them in the endless stream of new new we’re getting every afternoon which is both great and good and not all because how are we ever going to take anything seriously again and why should we when there are all the machines–
are pigs.
Those for whom meaning have certain words which must be nailed to the face of the thing itself in the idea of expressing some deepseated human truth in the idea of life and making heart and money next to others because there could be no other way to tell you but by reflecting what I have done inside me and the idea of being holy or unholy or hated or unhated for what you have said to anybody concerning your life and what kind of sexflesh you hold and what size your arms are and who you love or do not love and why not; those who wallow and lash because they can and the machine will eat it and the day will get old and fine and fine because it’s easier to say something about anything than to do anything and to talk in words that will be voted upon in booths and refilling every other language with how can I do what I do and not sound like a megashitcenter,
are maybe not the worst kind of pigs but at least another kind of pig around these yards of which I am one and one and one and one.
“And you are quite aimless, young man!”
is what dude said some 80 years ago and that is still the same way and for anyone too and that’s not going anywhere regardless of what name we can attach of whose other name to this or that when any moment of someone looking is a minor miracle in itself as hard as it is to get anyone to even look at a menu for very long at a restaurant where great dinners are sold, what more could you want, how are you you, where are your eyes.
No one is a critic but everyone can talk no matter how much hair they are.
You told me what? I know there’s nothing. That’s not even that to say that but sometimes I like to lay down in the bed with the book even if tomorrow I can’t remember what it said because of walking or getting a car fixed but I still there was in the bed with the book that could also be called a new kind of machine, every book is a new machine maybe if you let it plug into you but how many holes do you have left with the access point that smell like money and the light of anywhere about to eat your head.
Nothing is fine except going to sleep a little and that gets harder and the more you see the more you do not see.
A glyph on the center of your mother’s forehead who you don’t speak to even when you speak or whoever else you love or else you do and what are you making come out of your mouth and for how long.
And don’t expect anybody to like you coming near them
with that big white machete you call a face and getting hungry
when they can smell you cooking because what is cooked too
is cooked too and I know you know I’m grinding on this machine again
I know you know I’m invisible on Gmail chat and saying I’m not there
when I’m really there and I’m refreshing the Facebook stream where people
I maybe like the least are the ones I read the most and to read them I must
call them friends and so they must be my friends and I refresh between
the sentences often of the writing of the other books and so maybe that’s
in there somewhere too and my cell phone is facedown on the floor because
all this writing and all this talking in silence to the machines to anybody
has made me very hard to love or even simply be around
and even harder to enjoy a fine day which is the worst except for watching someone die and join the husk.

Ah, these little hours of what people have to say, this is what we’re saying

there isn’t that much left to say and so the saying it has become the machine too

I hear the eyes rolling in the heads of the people I’ve made feel smaller

in my trying in this room not to feel so old and yet I’m still trying I’m just

another electronic box too to press the buttons to too can we be friends

Are you so surprised anyone hates what they have made.

It’s not surprising to be tired anymore and it’s not suprising you’d get
anybody wrong but it still feels smaller now than ever as it’s all larger.

You will be taken on or not. What you write down becomes the thing you
wrote down as that passed which is invaluable to anyone even unseen.

Thanks for that. Thanks for the making I will try to see it too and try to love it
and try to tell you that I love it but if I don’t tell you that I love it don’t take
that the wrong way, I am saying ‘I’ but I meaning not even me or anybody but
no one. Even those that love anything are going to have to go to bed and have
to get up the next morning and go to the machine again or not and be or not
be at all distraught. We’re lucky if anything we think about us is ever thought.

Your mind is right here. It wasn’t when you said it might be, that was the only time
it ever wasn’t. Grin in yourself a little and slam my fingers in the keyboard for saying so.
And this air will go on in that lubricating membrane which these days is more like
LCD membranes and white paint, a million membranes and no fissures except
right where you have any thought,
but so multiplying and so capable of sensitive and pertinence,
splitting glistening, turning inside out where is no word,
no high not in toxin dimensions, nowhere, the black square turning in
and
all right then will be found to be all this,
and I will speak no longer having the need.