So,
this is gonna sound a little conversational,
but it’s a poem.
swear
to
qod*
(*The ficticious god of poetry Stephen just made up right here and right now : Strain, Dipple, et. al. {ed. you’re not even using real academic notation anymore, hasn’t this bit run its course?[Do you know how long I’ve milked the phrase “vinyl hum”?]})
I have this piece I love.
I have all these pieces I love.
The ones where I think I’m being clever.
When I think I’m pushing the limits of my skill.
When I think I’m making the thing that is going to be amazing.
My moments of mad science.
I love them.
Me. >raysoflove> Mad Science.
Got it?
Good.
Because I love them.
You don’t.
But.
NO ONE
gets famous from poetry
anymore.
a
n
d
imeanthat’snotit
I
j
u
s
t
want you. . .
to like what I do,
if i’m honest.
