14 March 2005

Taped-on Tampon Rattlesnakes Shakin'

he's got fasting black lungs made of clove splintered shardes they're the kind that will talk through a wheezing of coughs and i hear him every night in every pore and every time he just makes me warm freeze without an answer free from all the shame i must hide cuz
look at how they flock to him from an isle of open sores he knows that the taste is such to die for

Evil. Couldn't quite hack it to bits last time you saw-ed it, could you? Just a daft idea of a daft people or person, place, or thing (noun). But I have an abject adjective for your brooding parade of ticker tape time bombs squares, a little glitz for your forty ounces and cool shade trees inside the corolla you pull to the curb in. Welcome to the holiday of national dis-awareness that allows me to procreate asexually these ideas in rudimentary
formulatory works of jar-manic
sensory extrudation
reconstituted like the hotdog packing suitcases that you are, no? Tight-fitting suits with folds unfabric-like, but skin all paunchy and mucosal like summer sweat-ed handkerchiefs. It's the Wassily on the wall, the Deluge, inspiration of the morose and insipid kind, no better
I'm afraid.
The dark, the dim, the utterly dorkified. I got some hat pins and collar stays, bobbies and bloodshed on my shovel and spade. Whatever that means. Just whatever. Failure isn't a mystery but a complete triumph of dilettante professionalism, weeding the daringly asymptomatic from the herd. Power in general is a barbarians game, a checkered past played on chess board ivory. Seems to me that the empowered (verb) are not the elected, the equatorial plane shifted up two gears (down and over up one), revving for a revolver, a gunshot to narrowly miss the revolutionary beginning of mad-hatter era.
I'm afraid.
Nothing, not even the people we squish in our bathing suit sundances have had more time in the sun then the long tanned broken back. A proletariat perhaps, but as they're happy, I am to complain. Of the poorest of topics, the lowest of wits, the foulest of gutters that I continue to wade in, all the more triumphant that still has some fun to be found. Is the microphone on, good, cos this is off the record strictly, or else I turn up my disemboweler ray to doom in your shorts. Begin like a kid and
rolling loll in the mud, give it two d's (mudd) just because this is the way language was meant to be heard--> openly
tilt head, gape jaw
rolling eyes back and say aaaaaah.
Callous, calcified, i wait, because its what entire lives are for, just trimming the time with scissors to snowflakes. Trains are comin, trains are comin, little wooden bobbing wheels clack clack clackity on a shoulder blade. I've only time to say that I am far from making a point, but I'll be damned if anyone else is going to make one of me first.
Rest is not gotten from bodily sleep, thus i will never truly find it; rather, it comes from an inner light that has long been darkened by an aching sun I burn beneath.

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