Seems like I’ve not typed for weeks. It’s cos work’s been a bastard but now it’s Friday and that means, it means: I can sit and think about Kafka. Everybody reads Kafka. But out of all the poets on the playlist it’s to him that I’m kind of most romantically attached, and so much so I printed the Warhol portrait, taped it to my door. Which is clichéd. Sod it though. It’s my fave painting. That neon is alive. And looking at the neon I think: Kafka and Warhol are overlapping opposites and a cable connects the diaries to the factory but dunno how. And I think: Kafka is a console game. And I think: Kafka polishes a crow whose wings are purple and blue. And I think: Kafka Cybernetic stockprice this morgen fell by 13 points. And I think: Kafka visits Artemis bordello. And I think: Kafka has a monopoly on the letter K. And I think: Kafka in a seedy letter asked Felice what she’s wearing. And I think: Kafka Zoo. And I think: Kafka in the 2nd-person operates in the 1st-person. And I think: Kafka taught art to those who teach me about art but I’m a bad student. And I think: Kafka is a kind of detective and his stories are kind of criminals. And I think: Kafka produced music in spurts of delirium. And I think: Kafka is a brand-name for pharmaceuticals, a benzo. And I think: Kafka is a brand name for spy software. And I think: Kafka’s eyes emit a high-pitch electronic buzz whose intensity increases as I get closer to the suffering that penetrates to the roots of my teeth. And I think: Kafka and his mythic porn collection. And I think: Kafka plays tennis with an ADIDAS racquet. And I think: Kafka uses silicon earplugs. And I think: Kafka in a room. And I think: Kafka is the room. And I think: Kafka is a metaphor for my drug addiction. And I think: Kafka is the angel-misfit. And I think: Kafka pinball machine. And I think: Kafka did one long confession, a poem, a poem-documentary, about life in the 21st century.
