I read a little of “Howe to Writte”
by someone called Blade Walker:

Do not write about yourself,
you might scribble regrettable revelations:
poisonous reflections of venomous memory,
elaborations of fears unfounded,
of solitude without solace.

All must be eschewed. Instead,
be vague and insubstantial.
I suggest, Miaow, miaow.

But I had no wish to write or read.
Outside the crystal morning sky
was contaminated with
immaterial atmospherics
and fluffy drifting clouds
of spontaneous mental frazzlement.

~/~

No-one ever cares to sort my uncertainties
unless I give them my credit card,
and then the sessions are too short.

My psychiatrist told me I had
no fashionable problems,
that I was dull and pointless,
feebly melancholic,
remorseful in Morse Code,
and miaow, miaow.

Yet, high and low, I search
for an ordinary building
on an ordinary hill,
that I saw all in a dream
before the loading had begun.

I seek seasoned explanations:
no morose reinventions
of causes and effects,
no confabulations
of the influential
near and far
that confound me.

The common human denominator
is imperfection,
and I am no exception.

I’m the exponential sum
of my mistakes,
and the writting tipse
were less than useless,
miaow, miaow.

about

• Neil Young, After the Gold Rush, 1970.
• Blade Walker’s writing advice is here.

artwork

Wind castles, evolved by the visual evo engine, my software that seeks unimagined realms. Art on Instagram four days per week.