Behind an able man there are always other vegetable men.
—Kit Robinson
Only yesterday your beast seemed a construct. Another
poem built with Facebook statuses. But note to self:
who are you, really? And do you like your dirty
money? We joke about murder by blanket but the
widows in the shadows are all hush-hush. We
joke about the widows in the shadows, call
them Shadow Widows and Widow Shadows.
All is good with morning. And we’re good, too,
full of coffee and of pastries and of ourselves. Each
of us ‘emerging’ in our own right – a word defined
differently depending on rude angels and the way
the world works. It’s a combination of chamber
music, of low-brow taste, and of sticky buns. And a
lot of repetition to wheedle the naïfs. Yet why am I so
nostalgic all of a sudden? Because I’m usually there this
time of year. Feel real lost. Who fuck am I? And then I see.
Excellent! I try to learn this book about how to pronounce
and have a good conversation. But should I? Work is
slimy and I just want to give everything up, sit back and
watch Beatport and Masterbeat fight to the death. Which wasn’t
everything it was cracked up to be. But there you have it nonetheless.
