Oh, silly world, how drunk am I, and it isn’t even worth it. I have edited afore said journal—spending the majority of such time high on amphetamine-like pills, or sloshed on booze, or hoping to be somehow fucked up on a combination of those two. There are few poets in these dark ages, I say, few, few poets. These are loud, loud ages—a strange staccato, strange tremble of image-sounds that are microwaving brains. Oh—waste. I have wasted many dollars on these silly ways. I say—oh, fuck it, blow your brains out, what a waste; there are many worthless motherfuckers claiming they can write and draining all my time away.
You are all fucking worthless, you wouldn’t notice meter if it wasn’t scanned before- hand, and you wouldn’t even chance to do a scansion if a text wasn’t clearly broken off in lines.
There are few, few poets, barely any writers, and you all think it’d be worth it, if we somehow had a cause that was fore-front in our skewed and empty minds.
There is writing here that’s worth it, but you’re not smart enough to see—issue two, I swear’ll be full of some words ‘bout police and poverty—you are small, small minded, not worth a shit or glance—I hope I die and shrivel up, before I join that worthless dance.
—Christopher Sweeney (Editor-in-Chief)
2 comments:
Ezra's stirring in his grave.
really? is this your opinion on art? you should be ashamed.
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