Quote unquotes us [some what in]-finitely

The eagerly-sought death of artisans’ works at the hands of imposters and con me, shows a culture how far it’s fallen, that the poultry brains of its citizens worship what they’re paid, and told to. That developers would with alacrity, bulldoze history to eradicate a fresco of what’s real, and replace it with the illusion of what’s history, sounds the depths of our values, quite effectively. Cheap prefab versions of quality reek their pathetic facade, next to crumbling originality; truth must be punished with permanent obscurity, reducing its recognizable coherency to archeological digs, or better still, dust for winds’ teasing. Then again, truth is worthless unless it sings blue from the hallowed lungs of those who wield it, sparking those who’ve never heard it consciously before.


Mmmm; so . . .


I think of the dead musicians, and sculptors, the inventors whose brainstorms were ignored, or more likely, stolen for breakthroughs savvy, but unspirited businessmen plundered, and I’m sickened by the invisibility ‘actual articles’ warrant in a deadened sensory awareness with which, we inhabit our worlds. This tension specializes the few to the many, as they walk the gambit of falsity perpetrated upon. Quote: A certain Charles Manson madness pervades the place, most unsurprising he laid low, with a bunch of red-necks here. One gets the impression multiple bodies habited overgrown, shallow graves ... young rape victims and crooked swindlers, copper seekers and drug dealers, ordinary citizens rising at night to fill your sky with hallucinatory faces, and your dreams with demented journeys to the underworld. The remote lodge, powered by an ancient Pelton wheel and fed by wire-wrapped logs, burnt to the ground in the seventies, once its pathway was purged of violent shotgun-toting guards, who lived in a ragged teepee. And so on, unquote. It was soggy, and difficult to read, stained with moss and riddled with small holes, as if buckshot had penetrated history, from beyond or before it was written. Funny how metaphors heir way to our pockets, so we’ll yank them out
with our keys.