i am not totally sure how i am by every single figure in alt lit (assembled by Matt Margo)
Matt Margo likes to play games. That’s messed up. While we’re brought up to hate the game the player is such an easy target. Worry about his abuse of drugs. Drugs do him, burning in his stomach. Hope Matt can rise above the influence. A moon shines in his window. At the very least Matt respects the moon. It controls the tides. Some claim the moon controls more than that, that it represents a particular position of pants butt I doubt it.
Joints are blown. Once more I worry about Matt’s out of control late night wanderings. This is unhealthy. Henry Rollins wakes up in the morning. He’s lucky to wake up to be himself. I can only be myself on the internet. People who can be who they want to be IRL are lucky. Few get that luxury. The internet is dedicated to simultaneously hiding and engaging with the real world. It is sad that the real world is far less positive than the internet. A rare line from me is here ‘Ann Coulter is watching Teletubbies again’. Expect the full story from that single line out wherever decides to accept it.
Peter Pan hits puberty. That’s rough. Growing up is the hardest thing to do. Toys R’Us tried keep people as man-childs. Man-childs have a huge amount of disposable income. Wish I was a man-child who everybody could dig. Life isn’t that easy. Internet art is the closest I get to my youth. My inner child is an internet dweller. In real life I’m an infinitely boring person.
Somebody scares poor Matt. Hope he wears the pants. A dick needs to be protected. As a wise sage once said to her children ‘don’t hit the face or the wee-wee because that’s the future down there’. Indeed the wee-wee is the future of mankind, at least until we live in a Brave New World kind of environment. A forest decapitated with the promise of fake plastic trees that sounds very Radiohead. Now I wonder whether or not Radiohead ever bothered to re-plant the fake plastic tree forest. If that moment lasts a lifetime you probably should get it right the first time. Repeats are serious pains.
Things fall over by themselves a bunch. Ever heard of the Berlin Wall? Only Communism kept it up. After the death of Communism there was no theory to keep it up. People think it was Reagan but it wasn’t. Reagan was a pathetic sad sack barely worth a jar of piss. Sorry to say that but the truth has to come out someday, why not today.
By the end the poem addresses the reader. It has a face. Self-combustion is part of life. Few live that life but it is an option, a super-bleak option. At the very end the poem acknowledges its own immortality. That’s how a poem should live: forever. Diamonds are temporary. Poetry is forever.