Assisted Suicide: American Poverty: 3
The ill frailty of suicide, social suicide, an institutional dismissal of self value—oh, this selfless attack is barbaric, she ponders, muses, at least engages, an active onslaught. A massive run-on sentence, Chet noted, amused, discarded the magazine, exhaled the magazine into the dummy, she is just air and plastic. The clique formed and initially did not intend massacres, no, no: clippings, awkward postings, inappropriate portrayals. Killing is a progressive stance against mutually indolent rival political or ideological parties. Became. It became. It is the third aggressor, the third engager, the man with the pistol, the woman with the pistol, the child with the pistol. I have lost my diction, Steve muttered, mentioned, again, not active, inane. The collapse of the modern idea, put lightly (its crashing destruction into bombs, bombs, bombs), came smooth, tactless, and slinky—yes, he was encouraged to make up words, slow, dumb words. DREGFOTT: to abolish the use of mines. PRIEZTMANPOUR: a well established and sinister military advisor. As in the PRIEZTMANPOUR did not approve, nor recognize, the government’s insistence that it must DREGFOTT. It became worse. The whores were on the street in symphony! Yes, worse and worser. I am dropping bombs on playgrounds, Steve muttered again, muttered, himself, posing as himself, hunched over computer screens in the dark, hung over, vomiting in the shower, pissing his pants, no fucking diction! Chocolate martini—that is the issue, the fucking drink order is killing your brain. No, he ignored it, hung over, dumb, blind, bling-bling, it is all a lengthy dream of disorder, discontentment. I might be awfully incapable, Steve wrote, an entrance into the third paragraph of the essay—for the quick reader, the editor, the man with the glasses who sits in a booth and raises his hand—but the idea is quite enchanting, reminds me of the small of her back—borrowed, or poorly stolen, his editor reminded him, even embarrassingly bad. Yes, yes, I know. I have been bleeding words for the past forty-eight hours, fifty-two if you count the Swedish whore and the Romanian transvestite, but they were fake, fake, fake. Forty-eight, lets stick with forty-eight. Still Steve was making up words, putting himself in misleading positions, next to the camera man, on the couch, in the alley, smoking weed, drinking himself to death. I would die like that, unimaginative, useless, living out a social suicide. That is, is, the death. She ponders, active, the social suicide, the one harboring gangrene in the backyard, my back yard, the cultural plea, undeniable, she, the muse, the muse, she is gone, departed, there is only one more step, Steve thinks, one more step and you are above the crowd, out of the crowd and you can see—see, see. And I walked down two steps and fell into a pisshole of mediocrity, pedestrians, fucking pedestrians. I’ve been needing a new swear word, he mentions, she is casually intrusive, sits too close, smells like lavender, no something else from Latin America, where there is romance, yes, she is intrusive, smells like liquor, yes, new York, liquor and weed and cigarettes, and despair: I don’t know what to wear; I don’t know what to look for; I like green. I am a whore. That was abusive, unnecessary, she is the muse—no she is abusive. In an ultimate protest, the singular most powerful step into a nuclear spring, he enslaves and unslaves himself, against the towering market, to insert, there is no recognition in its finality: do not accept, impose, or infiltrate. Remember her father was a PRIEZTMANPOUR. The financial burden will—borrowed, stolen, poorly stolen for a lifetime concept, object: principle. I have molded my angelic sense, my starved diction (indeed, he was bleeding words on Friday, he lost most of the three syllable words on Broadway and many two syllable words and a box of one syllable words, no, I didn’t see cat or boat in the collection, so tragic). The absence of this fate, enslaved and no longer slaved, to the absence of letters, he supposes, demands then that the only option was, is, indeed the only option ever could be: invent his own precious language and DREGFOTT.