wildcat

Fresh off the phone with Joy, my anti-virus has detected two viruses and it's still going, going, will it ever stop going? I need to go to bed soon, and I can't dare terminate this endeavour.

Anyway, I've written two poems, and I'm almost done a third. They're being printed off so I can go photocopy them for future workshops. My head's full of devils. My head's full of electric snakes. I am finding inner peace with a remixed jazz compilation.

Hush now? Don't explain.

Thankful, Buddha, Ganesha, the antivirus program has completed. I wonder what language it speaks. Michael tried to show me some examples of the math he was doing and it looked beautiful, but it was like trying to read Urdu or something. How does he do that?

Well, the text for the poem is done, but I have to decide if I want line breaks or prose-poem, and what stanza breaks to make. People will hate it I'm sure. I have no grasp of craft lately, but maybe I do and it's all just ingrained now. I can't bear line breaks and I refuse to enjamb. Somebody - who was it - said that the line is the breath, it must depend on the breath. My lines are long because I've got that psycho Bollywood energy explosion constantly on the verge. Every poem I write is about orgasms, even the ones that are gross or disturbing or familial. It's always about rushing toward that breaking point.

Shit, I'm being pretentious again. I must get out my cattle prod and insert it electricity-first into my arse, pacify myself. And then I'm going to get a glass of white grapefruit juice and complain about the bitter flavours.