Wednesday, July 13, 2005
section, top right (left, autodicte)
a failed prelude, of course. from under glass too small, from a larger work, one sixth of it or so. i tried to stitch it but had to ditch since i was like ectoplasm thus cemented to the task with my knowledge that i could do it even though after hours it was not stitching well that was going to be poetic but it's just baskwords.
ying underwear, he said to him. the rabbit only nibbled as it smelled to breathe. billy drank and drank, and he really wasn't billy was he, seventy years old, he crawled out of a southern swamp to write the great american snovel. he wrote manchyle all over his walls and the rite emerged with drinking and drawing with shit on the immaculately dull rugs and lords good will. the rabbit hopped in the type writer flew threw the window the table oozed black and white news clippings of girls and boys smiling, and an ocean view from the south painting tacked to the wall. they sat and bill mumbled, yes yes the man came up and smattered the roadster, his hat was so tall. the rabbit twisked and stared, his fur always felt slightly cold.
people gots lots of problems.