Tarting it up a Bit

Every once in a while I have to have a post that's just plain old prose writing, or the spiders in their Google-webs decide that The Bringdown is a spam blog. That's what this post is. Nothing interesting will happen. No phrases will be turned. All this is is a series of sentences strung together like you would normally expect in prose, because apparently when I try to write poetry, what results is very close to the inauthentic text that is used for spam blogs.

Yesterday I thought to myself, Well that raises some interesting questions about poetry, and the expectations we have about text, how we interact with text, and machine generated nonsense text. Then I got bored with that and killed zombies for the better part of the evening.

I don't have anything else to write about in this post, so the remainder will be mostly content free. Not free in the sense that it could go anywhere, man those are some crazy associations, but free in the sense that there will be nothing worth reading. It's safe to say that if anyone is reading this, they could have stopped before they even started and saved a few precious minutes of their lives. This sentence, for instance, is just a description of itself. Then there's this other sentence here that is sort of similar. This last sentence is where the post ends.

It's Not Done, Yet

here we are at the park
you borrowed a bike and said
you could jump that, no problem
a bunch of people watched
while you launched
I carried you away from that
wired over stones and blood
I wield the dull knife
useful only for spreading fat
while you stand before this
high manic you won't remember any of it
waving a very sharp knife
improbably I, or someone else
talks you down
probably offers you a drink
speeding you drive away
in someone's car
laughing with the door open
you call and apologize
and again
I hold you sobbing
unrelieved sorrow salt and snot
later you vomit black
I look up, you're holding on
for dear life to the rocks
and then the snow, oh god
the snow
you pissed vitamin enhanced there
marking the top of the world
in bright yellow and then
held the camera and swore,
half-amused and half-thought
I wouldn't get up

choreomania χορεία μανία chorea imagnativa aestimative

click yes to give it away
cancel to go back
adulate iridium irrepentant idiolizers
reject lapidary l______

The world, devoid. Motionless, emotionless, subsequent/resultant. Who wrote it? Did I write it, when I didn't know, while I was sleeping, when I let myself go, myslef, me flys, fe slym, did I dress in wrinkled clothing?