New Pessimism Notes: Spittle [Ludwig Fischer's Response]

[The New Pessimism grows like an old homunculus here before your very eyes, left out in the sleeting rain, a foam pill that unfolds, but no, not into a baby dinosaur for the tub.  Expect a series of exchanges between S a/o B and his co-conspirator Ludwig Fischer, thief of letters, rake, dandy out of joint, and, after all, "no gangrenous fob"...]

LF response to NPN: Spittle -

the decrepitude of life—the sole form of recognition that clings to the bottom lip of the one enunciating Pessimismus, no, not hatred of life, which has its delicacies, I chew the butt end of my cigars and wash down the blood of my flossed gums with J&B.  hatred that life has become the occupation of imbeciles, of wretched incompetencies.  one can no longer take a stroll without a lance and an ice-cream spoon for the boils and the cysts, for the fine tastes of the debrained and their silk garments.  life lacks elegance.  spit little.  the point is not to grease one’s step but to lubricate the dagger so that it can slip between the ribs of the present, finding its place without too much fuss.  spittle forms like last words.  words that misdirect the blood’s usual ambulation. the unnoticeable froth that builds as the sentences pile.  the mortar of this vast wall that we must construct to show our contempt. we will need it to protect our stolen caviar.