I guess this works now.


Does it? Yeah, I guess it does.

More to come.

-FTF

Guest poster on Strana Chudyes!

Hey, folks. Got two new things up, but they're not mine. Since I'm too incompetent and distractable to maintain a page like this by myself, I've secured a guest, or interim, or substitute to post during the long, fallow periods during which I couldn't care less.

Enter: my good friend from VT, Frederick T. Fowyer.

I've already posted his first two for your viewing, like I said, but soon enough I'll get him set up with his own account so that he can take it away himself. Meanwhile, any words for the nice folks, Frederick?

I think my posts speak for themselves.

You're a man of few words.

Not really.

P.S. I don't look like that.

Sense, as described through nonsense.

I don't think with my senses. I think behind my eyes. Is that why I return to the same spots so regularly, and retrace so often the same paths? So that I needn't revise my own world of symbols and simple expectations?

What is the pain of a biting insect? It has a great and commanding focus to it, such as can make a single, pulsing point out of a while swath of flesh in the mind. It shines, it is like a star, a single shining, radiating point, a vast expanse of nothingness set apart by the light which shines behind it, while it itself is no more than the path to the senses.

What if I scratched a star? Which Itch would it kill? And with what hand might I reach it?

What does a city always sound like? Cars, cars, cars. And people, in their cars, occasionally. What was a city before there were cars? Was it the sound of wooden wheels? Of breying draught animals? Chickens?!

Some sounds, with their persistence, kill our ears-- But it would be arrogance to distinguish which ones.

-FTF

SEX

is overrated!

Which is a lie, pure and simple.

Sex is fabulous.

Sex, food, and exertion are the three natural pleasures. Other pleasures are merely displacements of these three.

Music can only stimulate the memory of past pleasures, not create its own.

Songs and poetry bring the pleasures of the body safely into the parlor of the mind, where they can suffocate, wither, and wilt. One should neither read nor write too much poetry, lest they fancy themselves the vessels for the pleasures of others. And songs sung from even out the heart are merely honey to bait the numbing spider's trap.

(aside)That guy has a fabulous car.

If art is sublimated sex, then poetry is a sort of quiet rapist, leaving broken and ruined men and women wherever it has passed.

Who here would like some sex?

-FTF