All night I've been wondering, what does a person do to arrive at the sentenceBowlahoola is the Stomach in every individual man
How do you wake up, eat breakfast, maybe garden a bit, throw splotches of acid at a big metal sheet, talk with your wife, and then end up writing something so completely, bare ape insane as that? I won't even ask about the whole shooting-stars-all-the-vegetable-universe-in-my-left-foot thing, either. I just want to know: what's the a to b procedure on that sentence?
Oh, right: visions of angels dancing on clotheslines, and a big goddam lifetime around chemicals and Joshua Reynolds lectures on, like, the ideal in art.
Look at him. I bet he sees floating cannibal plants or something. I'm a little relieved that, as miswired as my brain must be, it could never create Milton. That poem would probably make more sense read backward, or upside-down, or not at all.
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