An intervention to Eloise the typewriter‘s “Dead words” poem.
Dead words are really dormant, in their own cocoons, Floating over empty lines, drifting in ink and embryonic thoughts, protected by imploded sound. And while we are petrified and tubed, socially impaired, intellectually distorted, Dead words are dehydrated under layers of linen cloths, decorum for the infrahuman, catacomb of history. Dead words empower bullets. Dead words are canned, jammed into our throats like ducks and geese. Dead words are there when options are no more, when begging hands are chopped by rolling windows of righteous lords, They stew them later to acculturate their offspring and justify themselves recursively. Dead words are crunchy, no calories, with gluten freedom rawness, with ukulele ambiance they are fashionably stray. Choking on silence, gagging on void, craving the screaming, dead words will fill gaps that you naturally avoid. Touching bottom, eat some soil, Chew the reality, spit on all cavities, stroy without coy.
