Not gonna even try, cause fuck that. Like back when I Have Had A Vision. You had to be there. All of Allen Ginsberg's witness of history hadda be playing on a jukebox. Couldn't be any other way. Best of all possible worlds. Hadda be.
Don't know if I can...
Write anything. Things may be too scrambled. Out of one paradigm, into the frying pan, into another pan. Fried. Guess there's bits of poetry?
Don't wanna pay attention to any old order. But might have to. For routine reasons. Practical survival reasons. Not that there is any imperative. I hope.
Forgot to put the dryer on. Drying brain pan on a scrambled scrape fan. Guess it some times gets like that. Good to have something to do. Look like I'm busy. Feel like I'm busy. A busy box for a verging on paranoiac inconsequential head faker. Good to have an alarm on. Not for any imperative, mind you. What's the point of posting on substack? Where there's no reflection? Getting further and further into the N hole. Where consequence is below some event horizon. Narcissus unblinking. And all that matters is death. Some narrative of death where it's not the end. Where you have the assurance you need. That. Death is not the end.
Endure over time. Not try and be friendly, but still be loving every body, in a desperate sort of way. Be looking forward to next amphetamine break. No one knows.
Noisia. Making me wanna rave again. In my own way. Own the universe. In a pinpoint. In an N hole. Corrupt cops and crack rocks.
That describes that. That.
That fucking beat. Fuck. Banging. What now? While I'm in it.?
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