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Was saving this for Oot Yir Face on Monday but alas the evening has been swallowed by the memory hole.
couldn’t this be the place
oh pretty please
so comfy and pliable
like a jobseeker’s lullaby.
Cue the recordings, like bird tracks in crisp snow,
different patterns for different species. What
benedictions will be muttered in the transhuman
slipstream? A call for a return to good old fashion
values like racism and homophobia. Regular
beatings for sexual deviants and those with
String them queers up
and let them cum in their underwear
when their necks snap.
Let their corpses decompose on our living room walls.
We have become too distant from ourselves. Our
Mammilian essence. Too tied up in gordian knots
of selfimposed constriction. It brings them
small essential comforts.
this moment is turning back upon itself;
like so many before it highlights a desperate need to connect to the surround biomass. People and voices.
Perhaps this sadness is all chemical
these are just the tears
of a perpetual tourist.
Perhaps I really am driftwood.
So, I do this spoken word thing every Monday called OOT YIR FACE. As the night has developed and become more popular I’ve been getting less mic time. This is both good and bad. Good that the night is getting popular, bad that I keep coming up with sets that are far longer than they need be. Below is everything I prepared for the Monday just gone for your viewing pleasure.
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