In October of last year, I composed a fucked up poem about a fucked up maker of dolls. Yesterday, I recorded myself doing a fucked up reading of it to some fucked up piano music. It’s pretty fucked up. Check it out or you’re pretty fucked up too.
"If today’s arts love the machine, technology, and organization, if they aspire to precision and reject anything vague and dreamy, this implies an instinctive repudiation of chaos and a longing to find the form appropriate to our times." -Oskar Schlemmer