thoughts on the new generation of writers...

I think stating that you think something before you write what you're thinking is repetitive and sounds stupid and is stupid and is a waste of space and a waste of letters and narcissistic.
"that's a thought I just thought"

when will words start to jump off the page again? come at the reader with knives and cleavers! Unplug the deadpan sinkhole! Are authors attempting this today? Are they in the twenty-something generation? Who are they? Allies, come forth, or lie down and die! Bring your words to life, come out from the shadows, move out from your parents shelter, your prepped up and cotton filled studio, unzip your hoodie, drop your diapers, lay down your pansy gown and drag on...show me your guts you filthy swine...yes! I like those dirty teeth you bare...take out your earplugs...show me what you're listening to and play it louder, aw that stuff is shit man, come on, get some soul into ya self, god dammit, get on the floor! jesus...get some blues in your bones, (and you there with your blue boner...HAH) death don't have no mercy in this land! Be a rolling stone, what? You gotta move! Go fall in love, and bring it on home to me....give me shock treatment, you brat...and I'll come right back and beat you up with a baseball bat.... think about the laws of motion:

1) a body at rest will stay at rest unless acted on by an outside force
act and let yourself be acted upon (or, you sit and rot, unaffected and unaffecting)
2) F=MA
become a force, and USE the force!
3) for every action there exists an equal and opposite reaction
challenge other forces! Don't assimilate mindlessly, eh?!!!


...



I want to read something that will give me a kick in the pants, not pages I can crumple up and stuff in a pill as adequate replacement for my ambien...Since when did literature become the vehicle for inexpression?

well, as any art should rightfully be a sign of the times, perhaps we all need a change...yet who will shout the call to arms?

maybe all the writers who live, are dead. maybe, they are lost. maybe they don't have paper and the knowledge for writing... Maybe passion is the symptom of insanity. Maybe, passion has been sedated by prescription drugs up the ass and fluorescent screens at 4 am (simulate infinite psychotic ward aura). Maybe dreams are primary colors and only a few select of them at a time. Maybe, I'm dead already or everyone would want me to be if I spoke, or maybe they'd shrug me off with irrelevant altruisms, merely trendy comebacks replacing actual thinking for ones self, maybe I am the idiot...

maybe I'm the fool, but I'm having a better time than you I guarantee that!

disaffection...what true artist doesn't want to be affected? to be affected and then to affect, to be huge and dominating, to dabble and twist, to take all and funnel down the soot and dirt through fire-hardened intestines, to black out the white page, to make mess and share...

well, well, well...the critics brand their stigmas...
maybe I don't read enough contemporaries. maybe these contemporaries only read other contemporaries.

where is the way into the powder room? the moment I find that crack the trampled mouse had been working on, I'm going to blow those doors wide open, sink the city that sleeps above, rock the citizens who have necks cemented forward and shoulders that are slick and cold...

man, I want to talk TO you, with you, I want a fuckin conversation but you're too busy inspecting that empty stomach of yours, taking drugs and veggie walkabouts to be disaffected one more day...

(literary poison is what we need! a chemical compound slipped into the pharmacies...to infect those who don't want to be affected! your time will come, and you won't be allowed to just sit there and think thoughts anymore...)