Skip to main content

For Levinson

The aesthetics of Malcolm Budd's intersubjectivity of validity in aesthetic judgements:


Malcolm Budd writes in a way that makes me experience a clusterfuck of dickery

at every dense and overly complicated sentence that pollutes the page

taking something that could be explained with light agility

and turning it into a swamp of dickish tricks.


I do not enjoy actively engaging in Budd.

I am a pretty apt perceiver of writing. At this point in my life...I'd hope I would be.


I am a pretty apt perceiver of dick. Again...


So I infer, that Malcolm Budd is compensating for his Junior Budd.

The low order properties of his writing amount to the higher order properties of his sexual aesthetic experience

Well these low order properties are so damn dickish that I imagine that Budd's dick is small.

Because you'd have to be if you write so dickishly; it manifests from the lack of physical dick.


Malcolm Budd then, would not be a valuable aesthetic experience.

It would not be worthwhile to experience Malcom Budd sexually.


Really Budd. Really?

You couldn't have made it more unpleasant

unless I had to experience you..."aesthetically"


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I Can't Hear Your Little Red Rooster

Fright

I call this room Home.

He will not look at me

His eyes flicker with

a speck of violence.



my strained smile,

disgusted by

my pleading eyes.

my veins freeze

icy blood

tearing through coronaries




May Day

'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…