Perhaps the most cacophonous angsty trite I fiegned interest in for a handjob in Athens, Ohio
Light thickens and the crow makes wing to the rooky wood.
Macbeth Act III, William Shakespeare
The de rigeur rite of passage for the critic in training is the peculiarly academic vehicle whereby the diacrhonic and immutable Shakespearian excellence is maintained with illustrative cataloging of the multiple meanings of bardian text. Works of and by T.S. Elliot on the subject and technique of this flavour of literary criticism are processed and performed constantly by self-respecting literary critics on this and other planets. Entire disertations have been written on the multitudinous valence of the rooky wood...and its impact on queer literature...in the American Midwest...post depression.
As the light thickened on the second millennium of the common era the popularity of this technique of finding critical significance in poem and prose waned, but in the waxy residue left in its wake is emergent a structural analysis with a decidedly epistemological and heuristic aftertaste, and it tastes, to our great disappointment, like fat free baked lays potato chips.
In architectural terms, the post modernist wing of the formalist party transmogrified the world in a grain of sand approach to critical thought into a spatial art. More on the architecture of the critique later.
For now, I offer for distribution When Will You Come Home by Galaxie 500. I intend to critic up this bitch in the next weekish so bring a towel, cause I'm layin it out like that.
When, when will you come home?
Watchin t.v. all alone
Watchin Kojak on my own
Starin at the wall
And waitin for your call
When, when will you come home?
Now, I'm crawlin on the floor
Makin noises like a dog
Makin noises you can't hear
Starin at the wall
And waitin for your call
When, when will you come home?
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