Thursday, April 7, 2016

Twin Cup Whiplash For Pipebusters


    When it comes to channelling literary fluids along my various pipes, I’m typically pretty vigilant.

    But not this week

    Such is my intermingliary confluence potential right now that I can’t be sure I’ll even make it to the end of this sentence without going off on a tangent unconsciously summoned by some other project.

    Thing is, I much prefer things this way.

    It is how stuff works in real life, out there in the pre-socmedpoopscape where the analogue myth of quantum living re-analogues itself in a kind of perceptual slurry.

    People are impossibly moody in this place, and competing narratives channel hop the poncey doncey out of one another beneath the blancmangeclouds of Celebrity’s eerily fixed personas.

    If writing is a net trained on the sensible, it surely allows the juiciest stuff to escape, preserving only eels strung out along the strings — or fish so stupid they endeavour only to swim for freedom backwards.

    (Probably, in California, there are gold nuggets, and even the odd Icelandic nomad must own a nettable mobile phone, but you get my point.  Or do you?  My literary fluids per-lump round my network as if plumbed by a pan-flow cocktail enthusiast.)

    There.

    Done.

    Out of my system.

    Time to go and write about BRAS.






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