from by Void Boys



Glamor Pus, contrary to popular belief, secretes from the wrists. Various beauty products enhance and diminish its biological production. Some of these products include: 1. Emotion 2. Courtesy 3. Anger 4. Nefarious/Contrived whispers and thoughts 5. “Love” 6. Disillusionment/Disheartened engagement with peers/A ubiquitous type of self-consciousness that is so nested in most-things-‘observably’-radical, I can’t begin to stop or start or stop or start or stop &c.
If you refer to “The Fantasy Rule,” you may find a very tenuous connection to Glamor Pus. This is good; tenuous connections can be very useful (I knew a man who often stared at things like paper and broken glass reflecting the dull evening and the guts of buildings (their wares—in a visceral and presidential way—rooted in the Apocalypse Gene/Doctrine/(faith)—and the guts of birds in alleys and the homeless on Market and kettle corn, popping in front of the stores for pants, the stores for chocolate, and other stores for useful things, and big malls dwarfing him in front of birds and buildings and people of the –less, and he’d stand there, avoiding his wrists. He refused to touch his face, in the midst of this shell game; “how does one give up? how does one begin to apply the Pus behind the ears? From whence does the deep Defeat surface?” I never answered the man. His name escapes me now. Like most people, he was very ugly: His clothes were new everyday, his beard was shaven by Pythagoras, his cigarette was always lit, and never, would you believe (I think, maybe, I worked with him? I think, maybe, he owned a Honda Fit? I think, maybe, his name started with a J and I heard him relieve himself once when he thought no one was around—back when he may or may not have been enjoying the Glamor Pus), would he ever rub the Pus on his face. When idle, he let it drip into his cuffs. Observing his discipline, he had to hold his cigarettes at a 180 degree angle in order to avoid smoking a Pus-filled cigarette. He never shook hands. “it’s not the type of thing you share.” (This is why I don’t expose my family to him; my family is very glamorus.) I don’t prompt suggestions like this, viz. sharing Glamor, excusing observance and critique and personal, abstract protests. “it’s for me, but I don’t need it. I just know what I don’t want.” Really though, the Pus kept him in order, and order is good. A discipline, something to rely on that is not puny, other febrile pre-and-post-humanistic…; to never indulge, to never slowly massage the Glamor Pus onto the hole—his face—forthwith abandoning the word narcissism. ‘Futile,’ I said).


from Glamorpus, released August 11, 2015



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