Little Red's Recovery Room

After reading these and these, I'm imagining a 21st-century riposte to Documents (Eds. O. Hunt, Lara Glenum and Anne Boyer). (Note to self: write an essay about the healthy refusal of all poetic licensing apparatuses or rationalized pre- and re-processing mechanisms in such poets while being brave enough to distinguish it from the milquetoast domesticated versions of surrealisme which are no more of an affront to the pieties and pietymakers of the day than, say, going around town with one black and one gray sock. When was it, anyway, that quirks replaced perversities? Blame Woody Allen. And Punky Brewster. Get over the people who will no doubt dislike you for saying so or who will, even worse, pay no attention whatsoever. That includes you too, Self).

Benjamin to Bataille underground: "You are working for fascism." Bataille to Benjamin underground: "Who said anything about work?"

And then Noah's contribution: "dog mouse wash" and "a whole fast airplane release pillow puncher."

Back to work.