(my father my king)
When all else fails, when all other possibilities have been extinguished-- that is, when everything is fucked-- hang the rules, hang morality, get a good piece of pipe, and bash the living piss out of the first person to look at you. This is how I will open, how I will ascend the straits of mind and pit hand to hand in Bokononic tension. Then again there are two ways of reading: one may read until the book is done, or alternately they may read until they are finished, a bit like splicing a reel of good audio feed. One moment there's that sizzle crack pop hisssssssssssssssssss snap! and then all the minutes after are silence unless you're listening in your sleep. Just under the dreaming there's a wave of patterned numbness that isn't numbness so much as its own antithesis, an orgasm of brain tissue flaring out lyrical hues only the mind knows innately. So hang yourself, you might find it fun with the bar taped across your face, a blue dot where the pen had been left to bleed the last letter.
You notice this curved highway on her knee tending to bend ominously toward the cleft in the sky, but you never thought that the entire world was a simple line did you. Got to get that head out of the garbage gutted meatloaf you've been forking, fork yourself, fork your woman [paint]. Sick-mindedly is the half-assed of tomorrow, because it’s only fair to be insipid for a short time and not your whole life. If I ever leave this world alive I'll be sure to translate the banter onto an ipod for all the teens screaming rented lines of movies made a hundred decades before film, not that it mattered cos the production companies would still strip your skin, putrefy the whole can, just to save their souls from the likes of Hitler. She says I'm O-K, but those are just letters, I can't quantify that, I can't put an emotion to those to singular unphrasable monemes, I want to know if you're 984427, if you're a bit 2334-9, or if like me you constantly feel utterly ridiculously 666.
Headtonics are the generation past us. It'll be a milkshake rush of electromagnetism frothing at the mouth in good rabid fashion just in time to take that still existing cancerous seed from using your cell phones on the highway and make it into a throbbing piece of tissue that at will makes the best tasting gin and tonics. What no one will tell you is that the only reason they don't taste like complete piss, is that you're taking a piss, you're completely [silage] bollocks. Geniuses that they were, they knew the body couldn't make a delicious gin and tonic for its life, your local bar tender is proof of that, so they fucked with your brains, or fucked them, depends what happened in that maternity ward you spent so much time in. You get me? Run a few wires to a brain-al area and instantly you have nothing short of complete taste control. The premise being that you'll be so constantly sloshed that while that headtonic is eating away at your brain twice as much as that bit of cancer was, you'll never know that what she just fed you was the most rancid bit of food left. Well, maybe you will know when you end up throwing it back up with blood in the ambulance an hour later. Scream her name. That's right. Betty.
I passed that guy once and in an instant I knew his story had something to do with a scandal in the Parliament. But yeah, Jesus was a bit of a trick himself now and again, wasn't he.
Children children children children children children chicken. I hate them, well at least when they're not cooked. So tell me toss them loose and fold that last croissant cos I have polymeritis of the plasticum of my liver spot on the moon.
Crazy isn't ugly, it isn't even fun, it’s a freedom of value and moral and any judgement ground. You say unhinged, I say unscrewed except by that sleek looking number with the nice ass. Banality is denied by casual screwball-ity, a constant, how do you say it in English, je ne your mom, that makes one forget about the monster-eating kittens one raised as a child.