Savage Comfort

Right. Write. All right?

Write right, though.

If you don’t write right you’ll end up righting wrong writing.

Right, writer.

Write to her. Or write her, writer.

Writer her well.

It’s the right thing to do, but it’s hard to write her right.

Do it right. Do it. Write.

If you don’t write, right,

What do you have left?

 

Doesn’t really seem right to write that.

Is it right writing to her, or for her?

You could write for right.

Right things with what you write.

Right writer write writer her writer rights right wrongs write right.

 

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights is a poem.

It speaks truth like Gaariye’s seer and howls in San Francisco an apostrophe or seven away from Blake-like joy.

If it was penned with spray-paint it would not be out of place on the walls of the Sorbonne in the imaginary revolution.

A Chilean spoke the truth, he said freedom is like a prime number.

The constant conundrum

Requiring undisciplined creativity.

Not so much cut and thrust but a sensation akin to trying to fit a tub of ice-cream in the freezer.

 

(See her, seer.)

It is not a matter of knowing what interests you.

After all eternity is the grossest idea a person can conceive of in connection with his acts.

Art can cease being a report about sensations and become a direct organisation of more advanced sensations. The point is to produce ourselves rather than things that enslave us.

It’s pretentious but there is a beach beneath the streets of Paris, London, Washington, and Berlin.

 

So they say. Although the people that wrote those words -

Prophets, artists, critics and historians are mutually exclusive anyway.