Genet Tells All

I hate every fucking word that works its way, like a spell, out the tips of my fingers.  (How do I find the keys, without looking, without thinking.  There are so many programs running in the background, just to  keep me alive.)  And there is nothing to say, except perhaps to discuss the implications of there being "nothing to say."  I hate my words.  I hate my ideas.  I hate the quandary of the impulse to write, to share, to communicate in the dim light of this absurdity, the itch to attempt the impossible and be understood, taken in and digested, "made sense of", when words are weary approximations that mean more or less what you think they do when someone else is saying them...this waterlogged, flood-muddied, faded and moldy Grammatica is garbage; if the components are a poem are washed up flotsam from some capsized trash transport.  All that paper!  All them words!