i need new non

what is chattiness?
what is "being fed"?
my computer is beginning to run slower and slower.

there was a man who wrote a book about torture at abu ghraib, he and his friend doctored the photos so that static where flesh is

i am having an incident of flesh

i am needing to be fed, why are there so many writers in the room?

i am also needing one high horse

anyway, i need it. i need there to be words that can feed me. i am getting smaller and smaller with the intelligences of so many people, there are many words up over the intelligences

do they not need food? do we all not need food? they make me doubt the existence

how does this happen? i am just sitting there. i am even barely listening. how does it suck? for so many minutes i am not having room for my body or my brain, to breathe there, for that despair eroticism

i want to know the difference between messy and chat. why there are so many works written about walks. i write about walks. in one picture a man was tethered as if on a leash. the writer said he doctored the photos to make them look old. to make them look like newspaper.

i need my mess. it can't be that. can it? can it be just the sheer pressure of some words, and again. that only sounds like smothering, that sounds like no movement, that sounds like no pressure towards movement.

or calling the dark thing dark, over and over.
i call it dark.

damn me for wanting something more than thumbs, more than even the beautiful room, or is that what i want, who sat there, and couldn't, who made the chandelier?

how much do i owe the language, to bear it from myself, is it a question of owing- that it come out? that it flow all liquid and dead?

i need an art i can't see into.
but not like that, not mass, not a lullaby of white noise. i want the words cut, to cut, so that i can eat them.
i want to spit out the gristle.
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