“bourgeois poets yodel nonsense about boring absence, they think of funny ways for letters to sit on the page, concrete fullshit, arty dumbshit, they are as safe as old toilet paper. revolution swoops the world, bourgeois artists stare at crumbs of dust in the light. people change reality. but these dull imitation poets talk to us of fragmented nothingness like 2-celled creatures trying to bebop; the world is heavier than they know. they do not know. they fight knowledge with abstraction and think they cool because they talk to theyself! they are full of shit. like vultures peckin on an open grave / they uphold dying capitalism and give themselves airs they think they shit is profound. complex but the people think it's as profound and complex as monkey farts.
now, meditate.... on that!”
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