Sonnets from 555 – John Lowther

John Lowther

My death was the beginning.
Yes, it means I’ll fuck anything that walks in the door.
But the inverse of a conditional is not inferable from the conditional.
It offends me that you are offended by the offensive things I say about your oppressed minority.

There is no real end game here.
I guess we’re retro-primitives in spite of ourselves.
Sorry to anyone with a retarded monkey with dyslexia, no insult intended.
But what is arousing is often socially embarrassing.

*

I believe in God and America.
The same old awful stories play out over and over again, even where we most ought to know
better.
Clearly, I am easily duped.

Various factors played roles in this disaster.

The truth is out, I’m an idiot
I’m also immature and submissive.
Sometimes these are honest mistakes.

Extra humiliation, and tellings off.
I am tempted to carry a gun.
It’s obvious that a gated community is a graveyard.
You should re-classify yourself buddy.

*

Obviously you must be very insecure about your nose.
The so-called comic nightmare.
I love its hidden structures.
Exclusion from the common code impels the frenzied quest: in the momentary glimpse, the
scrambled figure, the sporadic gesture, the chance encounter, the reverse image, the sudden
slippage, the lowered guard.
It’s a solipsistic world in which the psychosis is projected onto the other.
In a way, it’s worse than work because we have to smile and pretend we’re having fun.
The true life is absent.

*

We are spinning in the amniotic fluid of history, nourished by new unorthodoxies.
I’m not going to change the way I want to look just to be practical for the weather–that’s
absurd.
The hard-on or wetness comes first, wondering why follows on behind.
The strip lights are dark grey when off, the stains on the ceiling invisible.
Democracy is two wolves and a lamb voting on what to have for lunch.

*

I wish this stupid old bigot would fall off a bridge.
It’s quick, it’s easy, and ~it’s a trap for assholes~.
It was the sickness of celebrity.
It is the coldest and meanest of all deaths, with no more significance than cutting off a head of
cabbage or swallowing a mouthful of water.
And it hung around afterwards, stuck on me like remorse.
The hallucinations, too, persisted.
Perhaps it’s political depression.
It happens to me all of the time.
Not the end of the world but you can see it from here.

Note on the Text
555 is a collection of sonnets whose construction is database-driven and relies on text analytic software. I crunched and analyzed Shakespeare’s sonnets to arrive at averages for word, syllable and letter which became measures for three groups of sonnets. All lines are found material, thus typographical oddities abound. Values for word, syllable and letter were calculated for each. Line selection isn’t rule-driven and though I have tried to be expansive, it inevitably reflects what I read, watch, listen to, and thus my slurs and my passions, what amuses or disturbs. Sonnets are assembled using nonce patterns or number schemes; by ear, notion, or loose association; by tense, lexis, tone or alliteration.

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