in lieu of novelty
drips cocaine shoots the wall shoots the curtains the wall the cocaine never Watson shoots the violin plays it with holes sucks the holes shoots the strings shoots the sighs from tea lady lips the groans too the knees the artifice of what they’ve come to what they were what they originally tried to
“Watson, you slab, what’s this?”
population control or bust 的 Holmes
picks up the periodical
spies a new movement
ah, Tzara, the man with the tan
Dada something dada, the revelation of psyche, raw as can be
I hope it’s structured
cos without structure there’s no eyes
no receptive sponge
they’ll say they like it but they’ll never read it
I stand in line with these wretches
I smoke at them
Watson, look at this, read this, put your ossified fucking thought dungeon on this
doctor of no patients
lump of Afghan bullshit
shot by who?
Lord Calendar in blackface?
Get over here, read this, put your face five cm from this shit
my dear friend
[INSERT DIFFICULT POEM]
Tell me Watson tell me tell me the way a potato would
is this art?
Is this the successor to Raphael, to Beethoven, to Seinfeld, to Catdog, to Kentaro the Mime? Is this something people can read pages of?
The blow up Watson doll failed to respond
but in its head
it agreed with Holmes
cos it was Holmes
figment of a figment
rude in Japan
Holmes of Baker Street
Holmes In Marbella
Holmes In The Lake District
Holmes Vs Dracula
Holmes In The Sewers
Holmes In Heat
Holmes On The Verge Of
Holmes At The Double
Holmes Goes Vegan Ga Ma
Holmes On The Run
Holmes Thinking Of Ending Things
Holmes As A Pensioner
Holmes On His Knees, Takes HUGE BARBARIAN COCK In Mouth
Holmes Vs The Mischievous Gnomes
Holmes Goes To The Circus
Holmes on Fake Holmes on horizon boat Holmes off camping with Holmes without fear Holmes alone dick on the tea tray barrelling
Holmes And That Woman
Holmes Vs The Stylish Banker
Holmes in Sherwood
Holmes And The Case That Wouldn’t Be Solved
Holmes In A Greenhouse
Holmes All Up In Your Grill
Holmes In The Thick Of
“Maybe we can dig a bit deeper, eh, Watson? Take it piece by piece, see if there’s intent behind the insanity. Was it composed in an opium shack? Perhaps. But that does not make it Candide. Not that I enjoyed that drivel. Why would I? Voltaire was a commie. Pretending not to be. Whereas I’m a theoretical commie. Maybe in a thousand years, in a quiet way. Led by sociopaths, of course. The kind who show no interest in murder, not the other kind. Have you read Bogdanov? My God. I detest society and all its forms but my god, we can’t have that, it’s anarchy, it’s adventurous, people would be all up in my face, sharing my bathtub, expecting me to grow vegetables on roof farms. No, Watson, it can’t happen, it shan’t happen, the queen will see to that, if she can waddle that far, I’m sure she can, and if not, she can order one of the feel-good Indians to carry her. They’re probably fucking her, the Scots too…it’s a sorry state of affairs, Watson, which is why I coop myself up in here all day, shooting at the walls, living off a stipend, please, don’t mention my parents, don’t mention any parents, cyphers more than people, what do they do every day, any hobbies, they say they’re going to learn French again but do they? This is irrelevant, why did we pursue this? Back to the poem, if that’s what it is…line by line, limb by limb…don’t be coy, Watson, I expect commentary…can’t hide behind that ‘doctor not a thinker’ excuse forever…
HERSELF, WITH THE MONITORS
MAY NOT YET REACH US FOR BILLIONS OF YEARS
Herself is who?
She possesses monitors, why?
Do we wish her to reach us or would that be our doom?
Billions of years…billions…something on the cosmic scale…tentacled, perhaps?
Watson, speak, say something
Is there meaning in this?
Herself as a subject, linked to MAY NOT…it irks me, the impudence of it…yet the rest conforms…grammatically…
IONS OF WHICH
Ions cannot be innocent…
Damned and innocent, an ironic pair, in the appropriate structure, possibly…
Who is this Tron?
Ah, the revelation of psyche, raw…I know, I know, I’m being unfairly harsh…but the irregularity of it, the lack of design…
Is there pattern in this, Watson? Can you with your workmanlike brain glimpse that which I cannot?
Herself with monitors…
That could be it…could be…
Do we not force order onto our thoughts? Are the very words I speak to you now not an artifice of intellect? But then what passage is left, if thought cannot be expressed? The written word itself is a façade…how could we continue to exist if our impulses were exposed…expatriated?
This dadaism…a halfway house, perhaps?
A lick of the monster’s skin.
HALF A STAR FOR THE LIZARD EP
ZERO STARS FOR HER
But how, Watson?
How do we wrestle with this?
Lizard ep…half a star…a reward system?
These references…they’re constant…lizard ep? It is baffling…ep for epoch? Ep for epilepsy?
Was that the door?
A visitor, Watson? On my day off?
Quick, hide the poem
Put on your pants
Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes
you vapid wretch