Semioanalysis Discotheque
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
 
I was mad at you originally for not linking to my weblog, because I linked to your post of 10/5/04 about "Sheep Poetics" and then I saw you linked to Tommy Schism's blog but you didn't link back to my link which was linked to Tommy too, even though Tom's link to me was placed into his template before my assault on the "incorporation of snuff poems" which linked to both you and Tom's cat, Pooky. But what I didn't understand at the time I failed to link to you on purpose was that you had actually linked to She-Ra's link in her post about "asceticism among limerick writers" which linked back directly to my link to your left ear. This hurt my feelings initially, and that's why I took down my link to your link to She-Ra's link to Tommy's blog which decided the outcome of the Gilded Age. Which is why I linked to Fred's discussion of "post-blog skin writing" that then linked back to your link to She-Ra's link which I had intially missed because I was busy removing your link from my site. Well! I'm glad we got that straightened out, though I'm wondering why you are spending all your time linking to Stumpy Barracuda's new collection of poems when you failed to link to my new collection from Dead Horse Press which is linked on all the major blogs now including Link's Links, the links from which everyone borrows their links. Are they pity links or kissup links or link links? I guess we'll never disempower ourselves to decide. I hope all of you understand that my links love all of your understanding.

 
While in the midst of preening yourself,
you are lovable but lonely. Or, to paraphrase Mr. Hammer,
"One may not touch this." I'm tired of bricks
mortaring me back to the group hug. In labcoats
the few thus peruse the prophesy for the many
goddamn wildflowers that bloom in empty empty lots.
The force of declaration on my way to the bunkum
tells me that beauty is a weapon, your fetishes
futures. Well, I'm depressed! Here we are talking aesthetics
while some thug driving by drowns out all
dissent. Someday can I be a thug too?
Anarchic grownups make one turn back to a sweeter
tempo, reaching toward your fat lip coming into the frame
(what frame?) and then we decided on the veal.
We were very indirect, we were very spotty
unglued in spring rooms by tarantula syntax.
We thought you were a hottie until Armageddon
just happened! Now the sides of the cliff I'm straddling seem
unbridgeable: the question of what you meant by that
exact shimmy? Who knows! You've lit your own barbecue
and are bringing home the meat, or "content" for fuel.


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