Impairiscope

just pick right up from where you were. It’s fine. I’m making more than anybody is going to want to read in their entire life anyway. The point is to have fun. Yeah, sure, I’ve got goals. I want a Wikipedia page. I know it’s vain and narcissistic. But Spenser Madsen has one. Sure, he has a press, Sorry House. Sorry to me for not making one. But I’ve got my own little press here, to tell you the truth. Just so happens, I’m just about the only person in the world I care about. My biggest fan. Surpassing my mother in that regard, for sure. Self-proclaimed dark horse of alt-lit. My time is coming! More like, spends his time cumming… To missed opportunities and failed takeovers of social networks. What can I call myself but the Periscope of the video impaired. Impairiscope. That could be my new pseudonym once I burn this one all the way to the ground.

All this talk about Spenser Madsen reminds me how tired I am of sucking up to him. It’s time for me to get back to my roots. Regain some of that saintliness of the bowed back walk to the mirror through the haunted apartment. Lovin the scruff, I say. All comments appreciated but tips more so, I reply. Can’t bear to submit to another lit mag. They all want first rights, which are inherently mine. The always entitled forever ronin. Totally unprofessional. Egomaniac. Like I said, God.

Bitch, please, they called you a fuckin’ psycho.

Grady, get the goddamn tequila.

Bitch, please. There are only four left.

Poetry.

For the masses.

On the road.

Or shall I better say,

On the Phone.

The name of my next novel after Tropic of Scorpio.

You can call me Black Geriwack.

The crippleback who humps to the mirror as his only daily exercise and grabs the toast on the way back to throw at his dog like it’s a duck.

Surprised you give a fuck.

Some of you like Dennis Cardiff, whom I’m happy to see back by the way.

Lil’ Boy Butchered in New York, and all around me, probably even in the basement of this place, the hippest stuff in the world is going on.

Spenser Madsen is beneath me but I wouldn’t know it because I’m a hermit now I guess. Which is really nothing new. I used to live in the basement of an eight boy house watching streaming video of some show called The Chasers which was filmed in Australia about boys putting on pranks like the Impractical Jokers.

Poetry.

in Motion like I’m a mentally disabled artist at the Ventura Fair.

Drawing Crayola with poop accumulating in my pants because I haven’t changed them in a week while right now a poor Mexican woman is stumbling upon the cum wad disaster covered hair ball of last week that I dropped off for her this morning in a green Amazon bag before receiving another one full of food and lube. I’m really starting to feel like Thomas Wolfe. I’ve got servants. People getting my groceries and doing my clothes. Those panties go for a lot, by the way. In the future. Ready made art. Futurism. Everybody’s got to serve somebody. That’s the way I make the bed and get up and down back and forth to do these little menial tasks for Musette like change the channel or get more water or feed me, she says.

Portrait of a failed artist at almost thirty.

Future success.

Currentivism’s Ironic Iconic Frontispiece.

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