Here are two cut-ups written with the help of Bukowski, Miller, Kerouac, Burroughs, William Carlos Williams, and John Kennedy Toole. Far from the most original selection, but good writing is good writing. The first was written by the multi-talented, leggy beauty of the night, Erin Dillon. The second one I wrote. I am fond of both efforts.
Flowers hanging from sad, limp stems
Break a ruby rose from the nearby bush and when the sun comes churning down, scream at the frenzy of nothingness. I had deteriorated shockingly and attacked the table with fuzzy looking things. That heavy musk of masochism was first published as a pamphlet for steely-eyed business women. The greasy glass on the back door begged for forgiveness, lapping its glossy sides. The antidote is not groceries hidden in tall grass, but sliced jugular veins. Everything I saw looked like a peyote plant bustin' his ass for 20 dollars a week. I sat there reading my own novel, skimming bare trees above a snow glaze amongst a silk suit and a parade of tourists. Legs and arms and bodies in a desperate juxtaposition churn to bubbles as I howl and gnash my teeth. So many scalps blushing like a god-damned extreme paranoia rasps the throat.
the heavy musk of masochism
I busted my ass for $20 a week squeezing cellophane dreams out of jugular veins. Flowers hung from sad, limp stems in the raspy hallway of my apartment. My life felt like a screaming frenzy of nothingness. I began panicking, deteriorating, gnashing my teeth late into the night. And then one Sunday morning, as the churning sun beat down on my ingrown toenails, the antidote appeared wearing a silk suit.
The lion no longer chews upon my heart.