All piffle & twaddle—influence of the Bottom Dog man. For real “decadents” read Huysmans & other French authors. Diarrhea of words—stew of classic allusions. Fuck Artemiset alia! Don’t put intellect in your prick! Write honestly even if poorly. Humor is weak—immature. Try drugs and compare two kinds of writing. Try using only Anglo Saxon words. Throw your dictionary away! Don’t mix realism with poetics! If you can’t make words fuck, don’t masturbate them! When you speak of the Cunt put hair on it! Try to forget everything you learned in college. Try talking like an ignoramus— or an Igaroti. Read, for emetic, “Palm Wine Drinkard.” You will learn to write only when you stop trying to write. A line without effort is worth a chapter of push and pull. First ask yourself if you have anything to say. Don’t draw the pen unless you are ready for the kill! If you don’t get rid of the Classics you’ll die of constipation. Never show any one what you’ve written until a year or two later. Use the axe to your 1st draft and not the fine comb. The latter is for lice!!!
In the evening of a brightly unsunny day to watch back-lighted buildings through the slits between vertical strips of blinds and how red brick, brick painted red, a flaky white, gray or those of no color at all take the light though it seems only above and behind them so what shows below has a slight evening “the day—sobs—dies” sadness and the sun marches on. It isn’t like that on these buildings, the colors which seem to melt, to bloom and go and return do so in all reality. Go out and on a cross street briefly a last sidelong shine catches the faces of brick and enshadows the grout: which the eye sees only as a wash of another diluted color over the color it thinks it knows is there. Most things, like the sky, are always changing, always the same. Clouds rift and a beam falls into a cell where a future saint sits scratching. Or a wintry sun shows as a shallow pan of red above the Potomac, below Mount Vernon, and the doctor from Philadelphia nods and speaks of further bleeding.
Source: Schuyler, James. “Greenwich Avenue.” Collected Poems. New York: Noonday Press, 1998, pp. 169-170.
correlation of dizzy dive light and images fade at the end of divine capital — like a life preserver enamoured concrete vile fawn at the bottom of file architecture like rainbows demand it’s okay not to pose here among posy cardinals never stop look in the mirror it’s time to talk politics