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Savage Lee Writing

Textual Dérive; The Kinetic Phonetics of a Terminal Fool. Written in the Key of H

Packing up all our gear, to make the move across town. 

Packing up all our gear, to make the move across town. 

OMG I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU

Anonymous

Man, I hate to be so bitchy but it’s almost a little backhanded to be told that anonymously. You should sign stuff with an initial, even a sorta fake one, just so I can feel like you’re not ashamed for your affection, you know? Is it so embarrassing to be into me?

I mean, I’m just sort of nervous here, okay? I worry that you’re being sarcastic, or just teasing me. Am I that loveable? Am I that lonely? What’s going with me? Where am I headed? Where might I wind up? 

Really, we all feel pretty much the same way: it’s just nice to get mail. I, for real, love it anytime I see that little red notification at the top of my page. I try to give individual responses to personal letters, and post most of the anonymous responses on the page. It’s as interactive as I generally get, though I guess you can “talk to me” on twitter. It’s the internet, we’re all of us all over the place, yeah? But no place at all. We’re all at home, naked, wearing nothing but a cockring and a smile…

But I love you too, okay? If you’re going to take anything from all this, be sure that what it is. 

Smoking In The Rain

Look at those two, standing there. Smoking in the rain. They’re like a slow combustion, and when they lean in to speak, sparks seem to fly from their lips. 

She smells like she’s been dipped in sugar. She leaves little streaks of artificial colours on the street as she goes this way and that, looking for crap she was better of forgetting. Telephone books full of phoney numbers. Take-out menus from trans-dimensional cooking shops; places that fly extraterrestrial squid in a warm proto-nucleic sauce. 

He’s a skateboarder or a junkie or a rockstar, or maybe he just dresses that way. He’s got long lean arms full of purple, throbbing veins, and his eyes are always all black. All black, like a rain-puddle full of engine oil. All black like a bad mood, or the starting lineup to Public Enemy. 

They’re so fucking cool and bored and unattached to their surroundings. They’re like a random cell of animation placed against a meaningless backdrop. There’s no connection between them and everything else around them. They might as well be a patch of CG smoke erroneously placed in an outer-space sequence.

They stop for a break for a moment, because looking bad-ass all day is so exhausting, but they resume the immobile display a few minutes later, without so much as skipping an heard beat.

There’s a rhythm. You can feel it, though it can’t be heard.

It touches you. You’re sure you felt it. 

Falling Back Down To Earth As Bits Of Other Stuff

I just noticed that I haven’t uploaded a spoken word since I changed my hair and everything. Maybe I’ll record a piece after I get out of the shower. 
Any requests or recommendations?

I just noticed that I haven’t uploaded a spoken word since I changed my hair and everything. Maybe I’ll record a piece after I get out of the shower. 

Any requests or recommendations?

Tuning In Static

Woke up all broke up.

Pulled myself into the bathroom, where I fell down on my knees to lean into the cool white of the bowl. A mouthful of last night came up in my throat, and I spat it down gravity’s way.

Now I’m sitting here. Sore from nothing, with nothing to be done or said. Everything is a long, lonely ache. Every line a lie.

I think I can see tiny, nearly microscopic animals, living on the surface of my fresh cup of coffee. Or maybe what I think is a living creature is just some minuscule craft, designed to resemble insects as a form of camouflage. 

There is a dull, ringing sound that seems to be probing through my bones. I am set to a low vibrational frequency, attuned to fuck all.

I gave my blog a visual update!
Full of fresh internet goodness! 

I gave my blog a visual update!

Full of fresh internet goodness! 

Falling Back Down To Earth As Bits Of Other Stuff

She sells pop singles by the sea shore.

Mermaid music, the kind you can really twitch a fin to. 

You know what she’s like. Distant and gorgeous. Sort of dead in the eyes, but there’s a warmth about her. That’s the nuclear core of a star that sits where her heart should be. The thing gives cancer to anybody she doesn’t trust.

She’s hungry, for knowledge, and dinner. Companionship. Somebody who’s a good talker, and maybe tastes good when roasted for several hours in an industrial oven. She’s not too picky. She knows how to remove the important bones.

You want to be her. You write to get close to her. You lie to be near her. You craft an identity where you are her, and you correspond with yourself in what you imagine her voice would sound like in text.

You publish the whole thing and win many fancy awards from the sort of dull-faced nitwits who give awards for shitty books about sad people who don’t even exist. 

And maybe you come close to her, somewhere along the line.

Her identity blurs into yours.

And your transcend these mere transgressions. 

And take flight in a whole new form.

Random Thoughts Of Violence

Man, so weird to read about a sex offender living in a local half-way house. I mean, I know there’s dozens of them, but when it hits the news, it becomes all fresh. There’s a part of me that’s like, “Ooooo, I should find out where he lives so I can stalk and threaten him. That would be a good use of my life’s energy.”

But, I seriously do think shit like that. Sometimes I think, maybe I’m actually a bad person, for not taking action. “That dude raped two women. I don’t care if the law is done with him. My soul will burn in hell forever if I don’t go break his thumbs.”

Crazy talk, I know, but still. Goes through my head.

I want to believe in society, and the law. I really do. But it’s obviously so corrupt and flawed, I feel like just going along with it is a moral compromise I can’t afford. 

And if nothing means anything… if there is no god, no higher justice, no great reason behind anything, then all that matters is what we do. There is no karma, just my own two hands, and my ability to shape the universe into something offends me less. 

"The truth is, you’re the weak. And I’m the tyranny of evil men. But I’m trying Ringo. I’m trying real hard, to be the shepherd.” 

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