OR
"3 year old annotation and commentary on plagiarism and allusion"
would you like me to write like Kerouac? poetry-stained prose that just goes and goes and goes like a benny addict for page after page after paragraph after page until all the words run together, and the lines are full, and the margins have burst, black beauties of bop unbroken by periods or stops–
would you recognize the plagiarism or call it an homage? an homage to the image i see see of a sad drunk delirious and trembling at the edge of the sea sea in the town of Saint Francis Assisi:
could you see the words i speak and hear how hard i’m trying to prove my cleverity? provoke a sense of hilarity by evoking a sense of lack of sincerity. that’s why i rhyme. for god’s sake even his name rhymed: Jack Kerouac. and the sounds of the surname.
so sophisticated, so
the depth of the tragedy documented with the levity and absurdity of onomatopoeia.
can i read this the way i hear it in my head? i can’t read so much as write, you know the type – a lifetime accumulating fancy words to use in context to make you think those words are what i mean to say.
i’m reading Bataille because it sounds good to say, "i’m reading Bataille." i learned of Bataille from a girl i wanted to make out with and when she said Bataille i KNEW she must be smart and funny and clever and good in bed and all the things i hope the next cute girl thinks about me when i say “Bataille.”
i’m a simple man, what can I say?
"i plaigerised the last line."
i misspelled “plagiarized.” twice. i’m a parrot:
i am a simple, simple man. i like catchy songs cloaked in dissonance and nice hips draped in punk rock aesthetics stale since the year i was born. i like fancy books with simple sentences and simple books with fancy sentences. i like pretty pictures stitched together in non-linear form. i like narrative pictures exploded into disconnected perspectives. the prettiest girl i know is the prettiest girl i know because she wraps her smile in a bore.
and thus i complicate my life in an attempt to seem complex, but i am a simple man. stripped of my pretense, i might read more like Hemingway:
would you like me to write like Kerouac? poetry-stained prose that just goes and goes and goes like a benny addict for page after page after paragraph after page until all the words run together, and the lines are full, and the margins have burst, black beauties of bop unbroken by periods or stops–
i could type for miles with ankles tied to table legs with wire.
would you recognize the plagiarism or call it an homage? an homage to the image i see see of a sad drunk delirious and trembling at the edge of the sea sea in the town of Saint Francis Assisi:
≠
(how am I doing? ¿asi asi?)
could you see the words i speak and hear how hard i’m trying to prove my cleverity? provoke a sense of hilarity by evoking a sense of lack of sincerity. that’s why i rhyme. for god’s sake even his name rhymed: Jack Kerouac. and the sounds of the surname.
Ker-ou-ac. Care-o-ac.
so sophisticated, so
"French no less,"
the depth of the tragedy documented with the levity and absurdity of onomatopoeia.
Ker! Ou! Ak!
can i read this the way i hear it in my head? i can’t read so much as write, you know the type – a lifetime accumulating fancy words to use in context to make you think those words are what i mean to say.
even now i’m reading Bataille.
i’m reading Bataille because it sounds good to say, "i’m reading Bataille." i learned of Bataille from a girl i wanted to make out with and when she said Bataille i KNEW she must be smart and funny and clever and good in bed and all the things i hope the next cute girl thinks about me when i say “Bataille.”
i’m a simple man, what can I say?
"what else is there but sex and nice conversation?"
"i plaigerised the last line."
i plaigerised that line.
i misspelled “plagiarized.” twice. i’m a parrot:
i even parrot “i’m a parrot.”
i am a simple, simple man. i like catchy songs cloaked in dissonance and nice hips draped in punk rock aesthetics stale since the year i was born. i like fancy books with simple sentences and simple books with fancy sentences. i like pretty pictures stitched together in non-linear form. i like narrative pictures exploded into disconnected perspectives. the prettiest girl i know is the prettiest girl i know because she wraps her smile in a bore.
and thus i complicate my life in an attempt to seem complex, but i am a simple man. stripped of my pretense, i might read more like Hemingway:
i like songs, hips, books, pictures, and girls who smile.
(a final plagiarism)
"Yes, isn’t it pretty to think so."
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