Words. Simple and necessary. Like blood vessels or bricks. They keep us alive and beat us to death.
They lumber and stalk when stitched together like Frankensteinian creations, when they slither and skirt like timid vermin or scared children.
Epics and lectures and litanies and lies are nothing but combinations of words. Twist them up and scratch out their meaning, ascribe a new one, over and over.
In this book, I have fun with words, I catch them in calloused palm and pin them to cork for all to gander at.
I glue them together in impossible angles and bend and fold, spin and mutilate and somehow, they continue to do their job, they tirelessly work. To be words.
They lumber and stalk when stitched together like Frankensteinian creations, when they slither and skirt like timid vermin or scared children.
Epics and lectures and litanies and lies are nothing but combinations of words. Twist them up and scratch out their meaning, ascribe a new one, over and over.
In this book, I have fun with words, I catch them in calloused palm and pin them to cork for all to gander at.
I glue them together in impossible angles and bend and fold, spin and mutilate and somehow, they continue to do their job, they tirelessly work. To be words.
Used availability for John Boden's My Eyes Are Just Holograms