hackneyed
call it what you like selfish, uninspired, spineless and middle of the road.
i locate, unearth or fabricate what i require and carry out by means of loose cut, super human will whatever imagined powers, collected, bone like artifacts or new discoveries essential to completing this doglike work;
carved out of what was once a seamless realm, unrestrained by space and the passing of chronological time. gouged, as if by slow moving glaciers receding, exposing thousands of sedimentary years, are the many valleys and gorges of death, a lifelong way.
analytical critique is pointless, at the observable surface, scant nourishment and furthermore, makes no suggestible difference to one accustomed to piqued interest and spite.
to genuine art, post-mortem inquiry is no more important than a cat’s cradle string of ambiguous reflection between the usual standard models, regarding their own extraordinarily ranked instability, against a nightmarish and atypical design;
marked by deep scars, seismic fissures and volcanic fjords across an otherwise mentally disfigured, vacant and inhospitable cerebral terrain.
a dream, awake, out of order or not attempt lurid godlike sequential focus and from as many conjured vantages. undo a tangled web of inconsequential thought, string the snarled out, precisely, or for lack of celestial vision complicate uncertainty all the more.
©2023 Botched Resignation All rights reserved.
in this time of great social upheaval, a looming economic catastrophe and a civilization, along with all traces of humanity, teetering on the brink of extinction, comes this ill-mannered knucklehead, Gerard Padron, an american poet, on the ground, who writes under the pseudonym Botched Resignation. like many of the oxymoronic, idiosyncratic writers of his day, he is a lover of women, hero to children and champion of the poor. Botched Resignation is everything that is disdainfully fashionable. just ask him. he drinks heavily when he can and can’t dance. as to the many things which have been said about his personage, one cannot expect everybody to be as bright, clever, and optimistic, as they are self-assured and talented.
from the hypocritical top down, the collusive heads of every department on the globe, have insisted that everything we do, must be… from this point forward.., state of the art… fuck’em… it is not as though Botched Resignation, has not sent notice. the village idiot, elevated a tremendous fool, Botched Resignation is The Venomous Dog of the House of Padron / High Chancellor of the Witless, the Ardent and the Tawdry, who that on more than one occasion, has been mistaken for Jesus, and declared a much smarter man by more than just a few staggering
drunks.
an inebriated rogue, inspecting from head to foot, an intoxicated, duplicitous, secular pride, he is his own worst enemy. on the field of poetic contention, Botched Resignation has no rival, no job, no money and no prospects. none. he is the point and shaft of an elegiac spear, as well as the archetype who wields it. however, odds are, up against it he can never hope to win and doesn’t give a damn.
Botched Resignation is 100% pure snipe.