I’ve been looking through literary magazines lately.
Why, an intelligent reader might ask, would you want to do that? Why would you want to burden your already tired brain with the idiotic pretension and self-congratulatory pseudo-originality, the Lacan-worship and intellectual stagnation of these warty outgrowths of an artistic elite that has lost all vision and direction?
Well, mostly because I sometimes forget just how true the above paragraph is. And because I have a short story that I wrote quite some time ago and would kind of like to get published. And because the “genre” (how I hate that term) magazines would never publish it. Because it would be good for me and good for the story.
But Lord, if I have to look at another incoherent sentence disguised as a poem, or another rambling Frankenstein of self-referential clichés, I think I am going to vomit.