The Fragments

What I have are only fragments, words strewn haphazardly across the page, spidery script barely legible even to my own eye. A tentative meaning can be inferred from an     iterative recursion from goal to result, leaves raked and reraked, packaged and emptied, genetic swarms stalled in their search for meaning. Their only goal? Avoiding self-absorbed masturbation. Lines cross and crisscross the page, stark strokes striking out error, the ugly, misplaced, un-beautiful. Does it really need to be beautiful? Can't they find their place with the grotesque? The words are torn between imitation without replication     and the search for a new idea, a new style born of insight and life, unique (like everything else), ultimately infantile, a premature exposition staining the page, spraying the audience with its substance. The solution? Feel! Throw caution to the wind, for those who hear what you say- and turn away; let them sway. The words aren't jumbled because they're wrong, so many threads in the snarl, it's hard finding the tapestry to which they belong. Stop living a life so linear, run your operations in parallel.