RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Tuesday, January 8

January II

I have been publishing short novels, about one a week lately, inside the deep web, but also in pastebin pages, so you can find them by google searching "pastebin" plus "NDAA" because I did a text replace search and change the name of the main female character in each novel to NDAA, which stands for Never Demean Asstastic Angels, because it's important to me that we never demean asstastic angels. They are blessing, from god or science or some shit. Also, one of the better novels in this series, that NDAA lead has a daughter named Peach who is sort of a Down's syndrome angel herself, but also what would traditionally be considered a halfwit by our prejudiced standards of so-called civilization. But her mom, NDAA, feeds her square cereal, which is like those cinnamon grahams or whatever, but Peach calls them "square cereal" and hates them because she hates breakfast, just on general principle. So NDAA tells Peach she is the president of a square cereal secret society, to try and get her to eat breakfast. Except Peach still doesn't. Instead, she hangs out on the front porch and every time a car randomly passes their rural abode, she yells out at the top of her lungs, "I'M PEACH, THE PRESIDENT! I'M PEACH, THE PRESIDENT!"
Also I started working a comedy novel where a family of four cousins from southern West Virginia win the lottery, and rent an RV from Cruise America, and go on a cross-country travel spree where they kidnap various rural crime noir writers and force them to work mundane jobs, fall in love with loveless women, have doomed children, and experience the beautiful wonders of a life without hope. And then they have a time machine so after they make the writers experience all of that, they throw them in the time machine (American made, naturally) and go back to the first time they kidnapped them and instead torture and kill them, but with the added benefit of the writer having the full brain of memories related to actually being forced to live that type of life they glorify.
But mostly I am working on a collection of sonnets called Viking Underclass Conjures Valhalla in an Earth Gone Dark. It is post-apocalyptic, racially charged, has pornographic scenes galore, and the main character is based on what I'd like to be in life, namely a naked hillbilly viking warrior hiding in anarchic mountains who fucks a lot but also sneaks into cities to tear shit up, all in the name of building a more better world. Each sonnet is normal 14-lines, four rhyming quatrains with the rhyming couplet exclamation, and Alexandrine in nature each line, because seriously, fuck an iambic pentameter. Also each person/relationship is a crown of sonnets, where there are 14 basic sonnets whose last lines compose the crowning 15th sonnet. But there are also 14 different people/relationships that tell the story, so each of those crowning sonnets compose a final crowning crown sonnet at the end, which when I'm finished, will be tattooed on my right foot. At that point, I will add a new inside joke to my arsenal of inside jokes, where when I am barefoot at summer gatherings, I'll say, "Can I kick it?" in reference to the old Tribe Called Quest jam, but then I'll point at the sonnet on my foot and explain what it signifies and what a large undertaking writing a sonnet collection that really was and how taking on such a complicated form poetry project in such a free-form brainfucked era is a shining example that yes, I truly can kick it.

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