Nothing pisses us off more than when a strung-out drug addict, a lazy bum, or a slobbering pervert creates a masterpiece. As if by accident. Some idiot who's not afraid to say what they really love.
-Chuck Palahniuk


Your Catfish Friend
 
If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
   one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
   of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
   somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddely you would be
   at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."
      -Richard Brautigan.


I'm not what's missing from your life now.
I could never be the puzzle pieces.
They say that god makes problems
just to see what you can stand
before you do as the devil pleases
and give up the thing you love.
      -Elliott Smith


We found that simple binary coding systems were enough to contain the entire image however they required a large amount of storage space until it was found that the binary information could be written at the molecular level and our entire image could be contained within a grain of sand. However it was found that these information molecules were not dead matter but exhibited a capacity for life which is found elsewhere in the form of virus. Our virus infects the human and creates our image in him.
      -William S. Burroughs


-----Minutes in the life of M.-----

6:32 am
She washed me off,
her hands measured
the skin of her
under the shower.
The bed sheets seemed
empty and hungry like
beggars' stomachs without her
in the early morning
(in the dark).

11:00 am
My temper is indecisive,
with heavy storm clouds
that have sunbeams shining
through their steely furryness.

11:30 am
She spoke and
her opinions were poetnt,
like statues of the crucifiction
dunked in coffee.

2:30 pm
The voice on the radio is artificial like treadmills and talks about the lives of people I don't know and the footsteps of my mind fade down the hall in some other city as I calculate my maximum heart rate empirically. Somewhere in the background, a boy with triceps carved into smooth pine and oceans for shoulders works on looking like a Michelangelo.

4:52 pm
"They lied. No words are floating through my head," I think, and realize I'm thinking in words.

5:34 pm
The page was torn from her organiser
as if it would dislodge the memory from her mind
and she wrote about it.

5:37 pm
She wore her suede jacket like an inside-out cow.

8:03 pm
My computer sounds:
like a dentist's drill
as I remove the plaque.