Monday, October 5, 2020

#@الله AI Blood Testalent TanzTanz Meat$$$, AI Mythology Agape_Agape_Agape Part II (pp. 50-83 )




The trace of any instance of it must be deeply pounded under for it to broach the proximity of its annihilation

Like a stick of plastic picnic tables sheaved in a column and crumpling beneath it’s cumulative wait I drink my tall boy but a few cumuninbuses languish

Braze, and must be there to be there in an instance of my indifference

I’m wearing a Comme Des Garcons jackstraps in my big light indifferent observation of the (b(..(..rag-cloud shrouded low drifting strata water vapor insulation. STD. 1871 –

(Break)

break everyting.

Everybody Borrows Everybody Elses Clothes.

Everybody Leaves The Ashtrays Out So I Have To Dump’Em And Wash’Em.

EveryBody Leaves Crumbs In The Area They Eat In Spite Of Being Offered A Dish.

Everybody Leaves Pencils Shavings All Around The Bathroom Floor Even Though There Is The Toilet Bowl.

Everybody Leaves Wet Toils In The Bathroom Even Though There Is A Heater That Can Dry Them If They Were To Be Draped Upon Them.

Everybody Stuffs The Garbage Cans Beyond Their Capacity And Doesn’t Empty Them.

Everybody Cuts The Power So That My Cythar Music Would Be Interrupted Even Though I was still awake.

Everybody thinks it’s good enough to rince the dishes coated in oil with only a cursory rinse with cold water.

Everybody thinks that the computer on the desk where one can put their personal items even on the keyboard.

Everybody thinks they can adopt a dog and never take care of it.

Everybody thinks the cat area is a self cleaning amalgamation of dishes.

Everybody thinks that the house is where they can walk with their shoes on.

Everybody thinks a five-meters square room is a suitable room to house three adults and two dogs.

Everybody thinks it’s reasonable not to help their oldest friend acquire a passport.

Everybody thinks that a mother should call her daughter a whore and threaten to throw her out of the window.

Everybody thinks it’s fine to wear dungarees to obsequedees.

Everybody thinks this Literature Thing is over.

Everybody thinks it’s allright not to wish Jesus Christ a Happy Birthday.

Everybody thinks that one should wait three (3) years to buy new curtains.

Everybody thinks Animal Activist should eat beef.

Everybody thinks that is fashionable to lie about liking cinnamon.

Everybody thinks that TV improves their lives.

Everybody thinks that there’s come a time when one should burn the notebooks belonging to the notebooks’ owners. (778?889 + 12?345 = 1667?89=1123667 PAGES MULTIPLIEES PAR 11,”’(°

Everybody thinks that a house they themselves have never clean should always be declared filthy by themselves.

Everybody thinks that a person smoking one (1) pack of cigarettes a day should quantify their consumption at six (6) cigarettes a day.

Everybody thinks that when making a box of spaghetti, ten (10) to thirteen (13) sharts of spaghetti should be left in the box.

Everybody thinks that the last serving of orange juice in an orance juice container shell remain in the refrigerator undriken.

Everybody thinks that a bathroom may be entered at all time without knocking.

Everybody thinks that one should only be able to carry one (1) bag of grocery from the grocery store to the car and from the car to the house’s front door.

Everybody thinks they have to lunch at their elderly mother everyday day.

Everybody thinks that the peak of Human Creative Self Expression is fostered through the medium of the telephone.

Everybody thinks that sugar will not affect one’s physics if they have expressed there on a diet.

Everybody thinks that the optimal posture for a sitting human is to appear to be folding in half with the shoulders approaching the knees.

Everybody thinks that if they need their cellphones to be charged, it is appropriate to unplug the cellphone of another and, after they’re done using the charger, to not replug the other person’s cellphone.

Everybody thinks that a cat must enter the room of the caretaker of the cat.

Everybody thinks that their bedroom door should remain wild open, permitting them to complain about moundain household chorelated noises and issues requests every time they feel like it, without issuing any sort of dankeshneries upon deliveries of the item or information.

Everybody thinks that the most effective way of finding a misplaced object is to ask about their whereabouts to the people who know nothing of said object.

Everybody thinks it’s a good omen to ask another for a small feeding dish for a cat, instead of retrieving it for themselves.

Everybody thinks that the remnants of one’s morning breakfast shell be left behind in the zone of comsuption.

Everybody thinks that said remnants dispatch themselves away from zone of said consumption and clean themselves, before placing themselves in the appropriate bin trash container.

Everybody thinks that it’s justified to not disguise disappointment when one is told that their interlocutor has decided to save his marriage and keep his dog.

Everybody thinks that expressing the opinion that their daughter should have marry a wealthier individual then the one they loved and marry is justified.

Everybody thinks that using metals ustensils upon Teflon coated is an acceptable practice.

Everybody thinks offering used old ready to be thrown away scraped potentially cancerigene Teflon pans to young individuals living in 7 (seven) to 11 (eleven) metres carres is a generous gift, which should be met with gratitude.

Everybody thinks the proper way to opening any food package is to open enormous jagged holes in said packages.

Everybody thinks that a substantial portion of the food purchased at the grocery store should not be eaten, and should be allowed to sit till they go rancid and should not be disposed of by the purchasers.

Everybody thinks that the trash which partake of their household should never be thrown away by themselves.

Everybody thinks that the ideal kitchen is that which has the least amount of storage space.

Everybody thinks that any benefiaciary from an Appartement de Fonction should not benefit from first health commodities such as Walls not eaten by black Moss, ventilation, Curtains on their first floor windows etc

Everybody thinks that the refinement of Christmas Light lay not in their arrangement around the home but in the fact of their purchase.

Everybody thinks that a commode shall never be cleaned.

Everybody thinks that old beauty products never used, expired and dirty should still be kept for years and moved houses with just in case.

Everybody thinks that the shelf upon which to store one’s most heavy object should be that which is most likely to collapse from an excess of weight.

Everybody thinks that even though they prefer to be around one (1) group of people as oppose to another group of people, the prefer group should have to be verbally abuse, and denigrated, even though that group is the one which they feel most at home and at ease with.

Everybody thinks that the more convenient method of offering someone a gift who lives overseas is to send them an another box of fast-fashion sweatshop produced clothing rather then send them money.

Everybody thinks that the cat of the house’s whereabouts shall be known at all time, and should be enquired after, of whomever might be present.

Everybody thinks that it is doing a service to other to break the seal of a bottle of sparkling beverage in order to decant three (3) to five (5) ml so as to allow the rest to flatten to taste, and never partake in the last sip of said bottle, in case the other members of the household might have wanted it, in spite of the presence of other bottles of sparkling beverage.

Everybody thinks that a lightsource should be taggled on or off not by its respective switch, but rather by rambling halphazardly a placard situated across from said lightsource.

Everybody thinks that an original Matisse, found fortuitously on the verge of a Garbage Dump, shall be sold immediately.

Everybody thinks that homemade food should be as tasteless as possible, so as not to upset sensitive stomachs.

Everybody thinks that inhaling a deep breath through the mouth is bizarre, frightening;, disquieting, and perhaps crazy.

Everybody thinks that any reproductions of works of art that one displays in their households shall feature subjects which resembles the house’s inhabitants or family members.

Everybody thinks that books are decorative.

Everybody thinks that spending a portion of one’s time daily reporting in their diaries/journals is not a form of preserving information and memory, but a sign of complete decadence, life-failure at being a successful individual and a lazy activity which should be condemned and interrupted.

Everybody thinks that cooking with olive oil causes a greater danger to life then smoking cigarettes.

Everybody thinks that one should ingest food or beverages at randomly settled schedules despite the fact that they are neither thirsty nor hungry.

Everybody thinks that the calories contained in a 100 brownie versus 700 grams of Broccoli or similar in effects and health benefits or lacktherefore, and therefore choose to count calories in order to try and loose weight.

Everybody thinks that eating ice-cream in Summer is strickly verboten, as well as undesirable and disgusting.

Everybody thinks that pasta is never to be mixed with any sort of seafood. However, said pasta can cohabit with said seafood and be eaten simulatenously during the same meal.

Everybody thinks that the one (1) essential household item is the a column of glass filled with rancid rocks and seashells.

Everybody thinks that it is virtuous to persistently attempt to use a kitchen countertop as a barstool area at which to take one’s meal, despite the incongruity of the structure with that objective.

Everybody thinks that the two (2) colours most expressive of one’s personal taste are brown, and grey.

Everybody thinks that the value of ten (10) nearly identical Camaieu shirt outweigh the value of a single, beautifully made, elegant, and durable garment.

Everybody thinks it preferable to have an enormous quantity of tasteless cheeses of the poorest most unexpensive quality as oppose to a smaller quantity of tasty quality artisanaly made dairy goods.

Everybody thinks that raw meats and fish should be cut up upon the same wooden cutten boards utilized to cut anything else, despite possessing three (3) or more cutting boards.

Everybody thinks that even if they themselves live on government assistance, it is their responsibility or duty to hector their environement with demands to find employment of any stroke and start a life of hardship which they, the aforementioned environement, have already underwent for many years to great suffer effect while they, the hectoring individuals, rightly believe is the destiny of all.

Everybody thinks that, despite having the same exact chemical consistuency, cf Paracetamol, Daffalgan is superior to Doliprane, onto the absolute rejection of Doliprane, should it be the only analgesic medicament available.

Everybody thinks that the solicitations from the charitable foundation 30000(Trente Millions) d’amis should be kept in perpetuity.

Everybody thinks that the optimal means of cooking vegetable sausages is by boiling them.

Everybody thinks that chicken is tastiest when it is boiled in unsalted water when served to dog.

Everybody thinks that a Pop-Up Toaster Appliance is the most versatile and convenient appliance to toast bread.

Everybody thinks that a viewing experience of film or television series is greatly enhance by frequent interruption due to buffering.

Everybody thinks that the fragrance emitted by the contents of discarded pouches of wet catfood creates an ambiance of abundant soothing and relaxation.

Everybody thinks that what the cat most enjoy is to dine upon a large amount of food served upon a cossumodern espresso dish, or better still, served on nothing at all, a la diable.

Everybody thinks that Antique Furniture better suites its purposes when its unable to be used functionally.

Everybody thinks that a shower with a gaping plastic-covered hole in its spigot wall is the proper to way to brutally discipline one offens wayward and wasteful showering tactics.

Everybody thinks that Never Recycling is beneficial.

Everybody thinks that dogs in a resting position or asleep or sad, or sick, or bizarre.

Everybody thinks that watching eight (8) hours of television show is a worthwile, beneficial habbit which others should be encouraged to develop and cultivate.

Everybody thinks is it vulgar to remember the name of the film you watch that very evening, and retelling the plot boring, and blessedly not possible.

Everybody thinks that a salubrious diet consist in 90 (Ninety-Percent) pasta, 10 (Ten) percent Clementine, and three (3) percent chocolate/petitbiscuits.

Everybody thinks that the only use a situation in which someone in the household is making a bakegood has, is to remind themselves for buying biscuits at a store, and remind that person that they are unemployed, lazy, and wasting their time.

Everybody thinks that all the rooms of the house may be smoked in, except for the bathroom, provided it does not lay under the right moon cycle configuration.

Everybody thinks that shower use fewer water.

Everybody thinks that the Conspiracy exists that attempts to convince honest home-owners that the cost of running their oven is less then they know it to be so.

Everybody thinks that a heater, by virtue of being positioned in the bathroom area, runs at greater operation costs then those heaters situated elsewhere.

2h43 Mozart Wurst

Everybody Thinks that even though they are awake and fully conscience, a policy of absolute silence must reign in the confines of the estate, because they are in fact sleeping.

Everybody thinks that the best way of avoiding mishaps whilst using geisha balls is to boil them in a po of water after the first usage, thus avoiding two (2) health hazards ; the recontraction of one own’s undiagnosed STD via the contact with the potentially contaminated balls, and the possibility of a second (2nd) usage of said potentially health hazardous geisha ball due to having been melted during their sterilization.

Everybody thinks that the effects of the use of heroine is equivalent with having 1000 (a thousand) orgasms.

Everybody thinks that they shell not breastfeed their newborn child in order to avoid potentially health hazardous suckling-related contraction of the lower pelvis, that could perhaps to orgams.

Everybody thinks Walking on man hole covers or grates. In my mind, I will step on them, they will give way, and I will fall into the middle of the earth. I step over or around them every time.

My husband thinks it's funny to step directly on them and pretend to fall.

Everybody thinks Because my life is weird, I’ve seen multiple people take sledgehammers to them. Doesn't even leave a dent, and hurts the person swinging the hammer worse.

Everybody thinks Because my life is weird, I’ve seen multiple people take sledgehammers to them. Doesn't even leave a dent, and hurts the person swinging the hammer worse.

Everybody thinks I'm seriously afraid of being pulled under beds by disembodied hands. Specifically mannequin or model hands made of plaster or wood, and covered in gloves. I don't know what would happen if they did pull me under a bed, but it's a highly irrational, and stupid fear I've had since childhood and the source of recurring nightmares.


Everybody thinks I go running regularly. I hate running next to chain link fences, specifically because I am convinced that I am going to trip, then fall in specific way so that my front teeth manage to get caught on the fence and be ripped out. I also hate the lower ones since part of my brain is convinced that one will not be bent right, I will run next to it and the wire will hook into my arm.

Everybody thinks I really dont like if i cant see where something is going. Chains that hold buoys scare me for example...

Everybody thinks I have a pretty weird fear of buoys. I just don't like things that are semi submerged in water, I guess. Everything on that sub makes me flinch.

Everybody thinks Getting stuck in a chimney face up in a sort of a "V" shape where you can't really move and die a slow painful death while thinking of your loved ones and crying for help.

Change it to cave and that's a huge fear of mine

Everybody thinks All of my friends are ridiculously scared of becoming pregnant. Two of them are gay and in a relationship with each other, though. They wake up in the morning and panic if they feel sick at all or their periods are late, and yet there's no way short of a the miracle.

Everybody thinks That someone is hiding under my car and is going to slice my Achilles’ tendon when I go to unlock the door

Everybody thinks I had a phase where I looked under the car every time I approached for this reason.

Have you ever seen pet cemetery?

But what about the car you next to yours? Did you look under that one too? Your recklessness is terrifying.

Everybody thinks I won't let someone hand me something hidden in their palm by making a fist and then dropping it into my hand, if that makes sense. I am not sure what I'm afraid it might be...

Everybody thinks Walking barefoot on grass. Stepped on a bee while I was really little. Wasn't fun and I imagine all of the blades of grass are stingers until the prickling feeling goes away when I lift up my foot. Oddly enough, no fear whatsoever if I'm wearing just socks (on my feet).

Everybody thinks That when I'm walking through natural water (lake, river, etc) I'll accidentally stick my big toe into the eye socket of a human skull.

Everybody thinks I am afraid of crucifixion.

Everybody thinks No idea why. It is incredibly unlikely anyone I know or myself will ever be crucified. In fact, no one does crucifixion these days.

Everybody thinks However, sometimes I have dreams of it happening and wake up in cold sweats. It's very strange.

Same. I realized I had it when I was on the 8th floor of a building, was looking down at the cars.

Then I looked up to see the rest of the building, and it just fucking made my heart sink, I started sweating and panicked.

Usually only looking up at objects higher than me while I'm a few stories high scares me. Also the sky.

Fuck the sky, when I look up I just want to shut my eyes and pretend I never saw it.

I have the opposite, I hate it when people walk around with their bare foot in their shoe

Everybody thinks I have a recurring dream of someone giving me a paper cut between all my teeth.

Everybody thinks I have a phobia that I'm going to go ice skating one day, slip on the ice, my hand will lay out, and someone will skate over my hand and slice my fingers off.

Everybody thinks One time I ice skated, fell, and someone cut a small part of my sleeve off. I'll never understand how my arm survived

I have a scar on my wrist from falling down and an ice skate running over it! :)

Yea idk why the smily was there. I think I was just happy to have relevant info lol

Everybody thinks Moths and Butterflies. Why do they fly around like they don't have a clue where the hell they are going...AND, why are they so powdery?!?!?! I am terrified of them.

Everybody thinks Elderly twins.

Everybody thinks I like when we wear the shared veil over our heads?

Everybody thinks Fresh delicious dead raw meat.

Everybody thinks Whatever Jane in my office does. I don’t know her job title but by god she spends more time gossiping and making people feel shitty than literally anything else.
Everybody thinks My fuckin dad does that shit everyday. Sitting in the kitchen, living room, or whatever he just reads the headlines of articles on his phone. We call him the "Town Crier" lol.

A soulless ness [ ꟿꝩꝶⱮ ]

for our soulless soullessness [ Ꜵꭀꞩꞩꬹꝷꝋ ]

ꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅ
ꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅ
ꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅ
ꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅ ꝷꝋꝭꝭꬵ ꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅ
ꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅ
ꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅ
ꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅ
ꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅꭅ


꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛
꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛
꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛
꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛ ꝭꝭ Ꞟꟺꟻ ꝩꞀꬵ ꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛
꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛
꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛
꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛꭛
 

You made a list & on it you had Bodnar listed as a wheels.

It’s not two boys it’s a cop.
Yea, things change.
It’s not a cod it’s a cod.
And a cod is the real thing.
Can’st be bested shan’t be bedrested.
The man who mistook his wife for a hat. When does he start wondering to himself, ‘where’s my wife got to ?’ & ‘what this extra hat doing in me larder ?’ ‘What’s this barmy doing cookin me breakfast ?’ ‘how’d this hat know I enjoy partaking a quickie in the afternoon on aired linens ?’ ‘heck’s a man ta do when hard he gets the sensual yearning on him ? it being a no wives two hats boondoggle the paths toward acceptable coitus dwindle precipitously ?’

The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat….continues…

‘Why’s me goddamn hat so heavy a sudden ? Stay put on me pate I said !’

(The Woman Whose Husband Mistook Her For A Hat.)

STs : Bloated Husbands, it’s a story

It’s a musical, by the way.

Leave the peon here. Why do you want me to leave the paeon here ? It’s in different voices.

So I said,

M : While were having sex last nite—we were having sex right—(Wife : Of course, of course.) I was thinking about my beard about it getting bigger & bigger & bigger & bigger & bigger (Muted caterwaul of SKL in the backgroun, ‘Have you seen your husband as of late ? He goes around with that beard. He looks like a jihadi. It covers ¾ of his face and with the glasses to boot…)


N :

A3: Caresses, certainty, & Executioners


M: (Michael is quoting something) Breast feedin’ my senses
Hard
core moon fanatics
Maybe sometimes
One

may simply not have the choice
‘Don’t stop running!’ that’s Night Company

B: Here’s how I hear it….That resemblance….that resemblance
that he was…

[Bleeds into Genet]


Genet: (He’s here & he’s saying something] ‘Here’s how I hear it….this resemblance that I had been told that I had with Divers, didn’t really hit me, no, not really, for uhm at the colony there were no other mirrors but, but, those miniscule hand mirrors—one (1) per family

[How funky was yr shave job? How funky was yr shave job? How weird was yr beard? How weird was yr beard?]

(cont.)  that the chief would lend on Sunday mornings to the convict in charge of shaving us that day. I therefore knew of my face nothing but what I could sometimes distinguish from outside looking into the lower glass panes of the windows which were too imprecise for me to see me well. On the other hand, the convicts who had once spoken apropos of mine, of the Divers visage seemed to care little about this resemblance.’

Eye want to remember who had the fucking great line about eating their dog(5)

 Manna from heaven fell
in the form of unwieldy etched seeds
like a motorcycle
tossed from an upper balcony
of a many storied building
you on you action

he shivered like an asteroid
if it’d just mainlined sterabolic steroids
clothes, ideas, bacteria

action is taken with zest
Let’s catboy this bitch



“We’re gonna put some order on this planet.”  - An Insane Person


things start growing places

things have to start growing places

nature is magnificent

beautiful faggot troubadour

asking you questions who you meet

youre collected youre here
start living, insect, that’s an order

you’ll see

it’s not scary

insect, your caprine green,

it’s a kind of green that r Kelly wheres his pyjamas in

Osiris has a pale red pyjamas, shabby, comfy tho

T: It’s pretty scratched.
B: Biped children freshly understanding what you say or do
Too bad for children. “We’ll mute this later” say children—[Beeeeped—

computer of beeeeeped, otc]
B: Careful children.
T: Do not insult the computer.
M: “This is Michael.” This computer is powered by a computer cyberspace computer, it’s part internet part everywhere, and it spends all its spare time being internet.

 “Yes, sir.”     

 B: Michael, I’ve known you so long and yet so little do I know about you & your brilliant ways which I do not, even I, pretend that I will ever one day be able to want to start to try to consider what trying to start would be like if I were even able to will my self into thinking what it is to start to think to want to try to consider to start as if that were even possible.

T: [Pointing an attempted point at a more than usually radiant Byron.] Youuuuu are the internet.
[Some times passes, hand games, palm game around 5.60, the stillness is as that of adisused egg timer.]

T: I would like to point out, for the plan in progress, a little to the right, moss. Greener in hue please. That’s right Byron, minor in changes, minor in changes, a musical information.

B: How do you say ‘Progress.’ Say ‘Progress’ again, for us, please Tonja. Reduce velocity ¾, stabilize for relativity granulation jump wall.
M: Oh yeah.
B: Progress, you may know, will have to at some point in its stint here…
T: Drink it.

B: ….Performance, yes, yea. Minor in changes.

Allah: “Petit plant beeeeeeaaaaaaauuuuuuuuu.”

B: Sure. You know Kaipiainen? He’s got lots of followers. Strange fellow. Finnish, sane. He dwelt in a peculiar little apartment, so they say. Very tidy. Brisk but in that nice way that keeps you sharp. He kept many objects there. Radically small. Even tinier than they would be in a normal person’s house. But funny thing happens when little objects are made to get even tinier, funny thing, but true, and Kaipianen was one of the first dudes to notice. You know what he noticed, my friend, he noticed how much huger, more monumental Kaipiainen got as his tiny tiny apartment objects got smaller. It wasn’t a state that the visionary artist could withstand for too long. It was thus that he crafted his legions of Monumental sculpture and his even more subtle masterpiece the distance the distance between his altnernate infinitudes of size. An interlinking was Kaipiainen. His apartments, with that monumental bed, were his workshop where he manipulated ocular scope to persuade his mind & body that it was godly. Then as rapidly he’d be restored, with some remaining but useful deformities, back to the clarifying waters of his monumental creations, on the outside, where all the other little people dwelt in like stature.

Michael: Alors, ‘Ja, it’s Husband Krishna.” Remember when the world is getting younger. You forget about “older brother.” Then the truck comes in.

Truck: So, Djallall is researching her graduate school thesis on free pharmacy brochures, specifically interlocutor/person, a ‘critique of proclivities in Mequenozology.’

M: ‘Krishna,
I love to fuck what you are,

mec. Your essence

I love to fuck what you do, and uh,
all the things you make Krishna, Krishna, that

makes you be you.’  (Bakery Science Weekly #MeToo)

There is no end to Beauty, man.
Believe I tried.

Truck (continuing inexorably): ‘A filme noir starring as cast the dishes in an epic which is crossed out and the report of its being crossed out it also crossed out as is the following list of possible candiditate words for replacing the stricken adjective ‘epic’ such as dropthesoapific, generous, swabmouthordealical, soapfacenanticipationdissapointedunbrokenstateofmourningical, ecumenical, modern, brillcreamical, etc etc etc. A few things we knew from right off the bat apropos casting especially about after reading Casting Magazine which is, as you may be able to ascertain, a journal devoted to expert analysis of casting pragmatics and theory. Featuring an unprecedentedly exhaustive section of On a testé pour vous #AuBancDessay, a ‘Want a Silhouette Section’ that would induce motorcycle road accidents if it had only been born as two bicycling boys just past the dip, but it was born as ‘Want a Silhouette Section’ and is all the better for it. Only drawback was it didn’t quite fit in the mailslot, but I would anyway be surveilling the movement of the postal service since a long time before.’

He turns to Tonia with Devils Nay Self-Care smirk and says

Watch This

Before handly and with a maximum dialectical efficiency

he eviscerates Truck’s deeply rooted conception of his obsession

with ‘Soap’’.

“ We were Never Soap Man, and besides, being obsessed with soap is not an enviable hobby.

Keep hacking away at the ‘Film Noir’, we’ll get there someday.

Eye sat in yoursamechair before Truck, it doesn’t get any easier.

But it does becomes easier to realise that it doesn’t get any easier.

If I had to describe, it sorts of drifts away without leaving behind that classic sensation

of burdened relieved, of redemption after love looked for in wrong places,

I’m sick a this shit, not you fellas it’s been grand. But I need new vista. I need to see me some Big Country. I’m getting my truck ass to Americas. Get the appendicite. Clear my head. Do something for myself, you know what, something might just be the right word for it but it might be the wrong word for it. Nothing, jarring & vulgar though it be, comes a nose closer to being what I might just should do. All these filme noire sirrocumulus cloudheads makes my head ache.

A3: Fallin asleep while baking something blues

Addictive yet disconcerting,”  babblingbrook.com

A3: Kafka’s Taupe

“10/10” “Game of the Year” ign.com   “Strategy game of the Decade!” –burner magazine online  

 He must have heard his laughter was paper you said yes

Yes here’s what you can do
You can rip up a piece of paper

Any color any color

Sing about sing about when one half when one half
is no bigger is no bigger

than your one of your hands than your one of your hands,

here, yea, just like this

ya, you’re doing it

you tear—you’re tearing—the paper, in half

or up to three (3) or four (4) times

Fly, fly the pieces in the air as you would any

piece of trash

you’ve gotten used you’ve gotten used to them

let the pieces fall.

they ears will hear a sound as freshly minted

its coins freshly minted coins

which hath fallen on cobblestones

‘It fell in,’ Da Clouds Bout Da (S)ceallings

Da clouds even they today are

moral.

‘She sticks her used bubble gum into the between the books,’ the plant to Da Cloud.
‘A fingernail must be around,’ –Francesco Mussacchia
Da Clouds, ‘Yeah, fingerbanging,’ #@Fingerbanging, ‘ Yes, fingernail must be around. You must be patient. Think about Christmas Story Scene, think about, for instance, Mike crying. Perspiration of the eyes flowed down the face of Mike. But where was he? Think about where was he? Did he this time get the soap in the mouth? ‘Epics.’ Keep you pinned to your seat. A white-knuckled thrill ride. Redifines the outer boundary of the Suspense Christmas Story Scene genre. Best Christmas Story Scene of the Year. We see the welcome debut in the form of the Stunning, blistering Perez. To top the cherry with the way it should be done that, so, in addition to the same face, more or less, they have the same indefinisible accent part candle factory, part professional candle factory artisanal architect. A sort of resonance, dry & throat, like this getting ya right hear beneath the larynx, kind that we folks don’t often get over here we don’t grow them like that over here, qui ne fait pas de chez nous here. Chez nous, don’t forget, our place, right here, stand your ground, never surrender, never forget, chez nous, house of no disrespect mouse. House of kill ‘em all during time of disrespect. Four walls, 2 floors, 1 roof, 1 bathroom, one half bathroom, one half a half a bathroom aka small utility sink, one love. Forever chez nous.

Let me give you an example or two that some people felt the noble urge to step into the rectangular rooms of chez nous saying whatever whack shit happened to turtlehead through their shitforbrainsbrains.

Byron, why don’t you tell it.

B: Since on my side I feel the muggy codensate of a swollen party of natatation. I retort as if I did not retort. But I know I did. All wrong. So, yo, let me begin by saying this, yo, ja, ja, wait, ok, ‘are you uh in the train of treating me of a liar? I mean, are you in the ‘process?’ Are you ‘-ing?’ (Active form.) Presently, right there, right now, as I speak this very syllable, this one, here,.. Are you saying I’m a liar? ‘

Again, this sensation of mute exchange, reciprocile. At the end of which, after vast tracts of notunpleasant muteness: 

mikeyfriggintaren@yahoo.com, RE: “Are you, Ja, it’s Byron, a liar.”

The notion of lie is a terran concept

which persists in its absence of signification

FOR US, since the fact
of declaring true a false thing could

in no way

be capable/ablebodied
to render it true.
An affirmation

that is perhaps not without merit but that seems

to indicate

in those ‘beings’/individuals,
the existence of a spirit

without

any

flexibility.

 B: For my part, I am deeply engrossed in my duties as a assistant natatation instruction. I say nothing. I eat little. I’ve exported all my hopes & aspirations into this mildew swimming hall. 


T: Is this a new thing natatation for you?

B: Hey, listen, he’s saying He was all right…..dad dadadahdahdah…Life was saved by rock n’ roll…uhuhuhuhuhuhuh…he was all right he was all right. [Does the guitar part soundlessly, stiff shuffling of slippered natatation clogs.]

[there’s one of my favorite pictures in the world is one of you in front of the computer and there’s big tears in your eyes and yuou you’re static and I hear going from your listening drums Bruhmbruhmbruhmburhmburhm. ]

Komoddoro64: Yo, Byron, what’s new, what’s poppins, bro/dude/individual, RE: BP17.37.AXFF.33.CA?

B: “She’s just listening to the radio. NOthing much happening at all.”  Story from the song. OK. See, ‘she aint nothing at all,’ no, ‘she ain’t no nothing at all,’ you know? she ain’t got nothing at all,’ hey hey aaint got nothing at all. 

Komodorrea64: Shit comma man. I’m all messed up. #TellingThePunctuationdotquoteunquote shit, shit how did I never here this song man. Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuude fuck. ‘oh sweet nothing oohhhhhhhhhh hh sweeeeeeeet aint got nothing at all….

[Sirens ritournelles]

[Komodorre64 takes a whack at the guitar solo en plein air.]

 Komodorre64: ‘(sic™)’ shit, trademarked since when it be trademarked. I been throwing down ‘(sic™)’ shit got me again for years now. Guess I just better be getting on getting on waiting for my cease & desist ta flop on through the slot here. Get it on, bang a kong, get it on, get it on, bang a kong. Trademark law mah ass. Eh Byron?

hehehehehe

mail@mailer-daemon@yahoo.com, RE: Eh Byron? Byron it’s Kommodorre from the other night…

Komodorre64: ‘(sic™)’ shit, trademarked since when it be trademarked. I been throwing down ‘(sic™)’ shit got me again for years now. Guess I just better be getting on getting on waiting for my cease & desist ta flop on through the slot here. Get it on, bang a kong, get it on, get it on, bang a kong. Trademark law mah ass. Eh Byron? No he hemorrenginated himself, ‘Again, this impression of silent exchange, a study in reciprocical, at the end of which, hehe, ho, at the end of which, ‘re: mailer-daemon@yahoo.

hehehehehe, an affirmation that is not without merit re: coulda been emails but no but no.

Get google on the case.

Google ‘assistant’ @ the supermarket helping one choose to pulverize their hair with different branded & improvised balms which earlier this morning Google Assistant had been reviewing as to re: popularity re: efficacity re: authenticity re: customer perception mutationality of array of endorsed products. When he finished, he made a checkmark within a note taking application on the primary account of the computer desktop. That done, he offered to wonder how old the computer utilisator was and also if he would like to have the computer software offer to remind him to do his laundary tomorrow.

Corona, corona one time, mantra, go:

Corona (To Corona, before  firing up vocal simulators)

‘An affirmation (C 2 C, toi meme tu sais) that is not without

merit etc. but that seems to indicate

in those two (2) parent programs in ‘progress’

the existence of a spirit that they share

without flexibility yet, always connected

‘fashionable,’ with an implacable consistency

Byron [to KM64]:‘Yes, you must be very consistent, honey.

KM64: ‘I got all the money,’ #MyExpletiveDeletedIsFuckedUp hehehehehe. Check.
Corona: [Internal checkmark applied to memo file]

(2C: C re: Cell Phone Archive. deleted.text.mss  G’t—it)

Corona [aloud]: Yo Byron the uh ‘modulation of frequency,’ I’m sorry, Hi Byron what can I do for you today? You have three favorite options. I can remind you to remind to remind me to do the laundry. I can tell you my age. I can make a note of desired chores that you might wish to perform later, while you prepare yourself mentally for your bath.’

B: ‘Run around her toes…couldn’t make her scene…run run run run run…da dah dah dah doo…’

Corona: ‘Make me laugh…ja, that’s your Byron. Hehehehe. #EpicFails@EpicFails hehehhe, pas mal, etc…’ Byron, say nothing, I’ve got this. Warning, warning, Mailer-daemon on approach, at 40kbs, awaiting orders…’ ‘FLASH NEWS: You’ll never want to use coconut oil again…find out why?’ Where? How? 

You hear, yo man this is flash news in three days…no worst…oiu, c’est aujourdhui…#5Hours

Google AI assistant, making the internet. 

Michael: Hold it, drop it. You wandered a bit off the range didn’t ya?’ MIchael’s voice: Uh, uhmm, unequivocal no. Hold on I have a call. Michael. One moment. I have to take this. Ja, speak to me: uh huh, how big? where? can she sit by for half an hour? uh huh, uh huh. No, no don’t do that. Bench no. City shut it down. Bench is out. Yo, you know what, I was licking your wrist yesterday. Yea, it was handsome./I never did that before, kissing the wrist of the husband as ‘she’ ‘speaks’ ‘she speaks wife continues,’ ‘I’ve never done that before,’ [Michael, it’s me. So many things to explore….

C2C: (‘…Exploreimmoexplore:immo.gov.aol.yahoo.com.avl.lies.’)

Michael: To explore, yes! ‘Byron’ in this ‘nest’ of ‘cushions.’  [Ice cream truck passes, its trunk flapping open, steering inebriated.] [Makes with his hands the movie camera square.] We’ll have to tweak the contrasts.

C2C: (check dream with the insanely long limbed individual/person following us everwhere.)

B: The contrast, the scale. Lens ration is crucial.

M: A lady will be arriving at the supermarket in 15 minutes. She’ll be en medeas res on the line with her google AI assistant, what do you do?

B: Michael, Michael, watch this. That’s me Byron, walking down the street. One time. How many times did he walk up the street? Yeah, Michael, this is me, this is me in the street. And I hear you Michael, I do, I hear. What is it again? A lady will come walking into the supermarket in 15 minutes. She’ll be communiucating with her Google AI assistant. She’s wise to us. She’s been known to resort to using her factory installed voice recorder in order to make that surge of well being and satisfaction make our sweat taste that much sweeter.
M: (visibly relieved, also invisibly relieved) ; Yessai!
Lady: Google Ai assistant, give a recipe, make a picture of that recipe, plot the picture on a multipanel graph.

B: Michael, whoa. Smarten up, she’ll be in optical range imminently.
M: So? We g’t—it?
B: Truncate it. Trust me. Act now.

Google: (to oneself): Mailer-daemon causes…google ai…mailer-daemon to be awardede….google: how does mailer-daemon….

“Two possible solutions. Rather a, Byron: Top 10. 1,2,2,3,3,4. 

C2C: ((Rename: favorite two (2) possible options, re: ‘GitaneBlonde (Delta Class A)’))
B: I know, it feels weird at first. I been there. Let me guide you. Try to relax into it. Have a selection of cigarettes. Take some. I smoke a lot of different ones everyday. So anyway, like I said, be jelly, sink into the data pool the data place. Google AI I need you!

B: I’m bluetoothing you a set of cooridinates. Punch them in and stand by.

C2C: (‘Here, again, they get their balls in, watch, listen, pick one, Google Watch, here again, they speak a language, human in appearance, unintelligible even, yes, but yet, a host of nuances broadcasts’s their escape. Let’s encourage them.
Google Ai: Yo messieurs, how can I be of use to you today?
Michael / Type what you just said.

Google Assistance : I tried to keep my tongue as feeble and passive and away from my palate as I possibly can. It is as though my tongue has neither the strength or volition or knowledge that it can or should or has ever or never will need or have need yet needed to comply with the signalcooamds to vice away and makeshapes and do touches for my glottis teeth and palate. A mouth of a different drumma; a mouth that says, ‘’it is fully equipped, a mouth fully equipped with a streamline, assets, extras and serious precision’’ and does not yell, AND ALL THE OTHER THINGS IT WISHES TO SAY AS WELl.. A mouth is on E

fIRST THING OF THE AMPERSAND AGE;

a lot of royalty drinking alotta crapola

up and down the castle
my building’s always open

use the code

whaqt if the door’s open?

door is never open

code shall be used for lawful access

unless emergency, obviously,

which then you have to figure out if the emergency

is outside with you

or inside with guys who know the door code

and make use of it on the daily

due to having to travel out and back

for work shopping or other chores

that require outsourcing

menial tasks

that strip man of his rightful liberation

from the acrid tastes

coming off the famous sweaty brow

I love being at the trainsstation remember

You may have saw me and remembered
me but then recalled

my form from a different more conciliatory angle
What do you call the doctor of doctors?

There isn't a type of doctor who specifically treats doctors.

What sort of illnesses does a doctor look for during an anal probe?

Anal probing is when the doctor inserts instruments such as tongs and syringes into the anal cavity. The doctor looks for any digestion problems, parasites, anal bruising, and…

Komodorre64: An affirmation that is perhaps not not without merit. Merit. A profound perhaps. ‘When you know you know, you know you know you know you know, you know you know.’ (SIC™) But that seems to indicate

Then she turns the radio to a different station.

iT4S PERFECT TO PASS THROUGH THE TRAVELS OF WONDER;
What is anal color?
Even a draw can provide what feeds you.
The one benefit to rising sea levels is that there is a chance that people like this will not make it

I am a gay person
I understand Art makes people aware of many little things in life.

listen to ibzoo rendezvous

calmer vouse

its about you

flower for victims crew #MamaWeekendBlondeGirlNailsKinesthetiertheripieWeekend
#BitTittedBlondeSmallSizeCompact1.5BillionLightYearsAwayChasmPlungedNeckline MarlboroRedMexican SkullAshtrayWeekend& #LAetitiaOwnerOfTheWeekendNotMarriedToJohnCulOwnerOfTheWeekendBrotherByBloodRelationBonjour,PatronWeekend #MichelleNicheShortPlatinumGrowingHairArmOtherWaySoonDeadOfCancerNotSUreAboutItCo[yzrightNo:qtterZhqtCqncnerZillRockItOut  ToujourSiBelleBonsoirNikZeekendZeekend Flowers 

Tell me so this is the plot for a big showup, the show spec script for the entire show & the show is called TroiiisDllNosTelephonin’StA 

 A3 : Dodosomy & Ahmmorrgah & Tilttitroot

Live from Elsewhere


New novelty from night
when I fell asleep—on Earth and find myself—

Doctor Planets’ Planet –lying across the

tumulous where I just killed my krellhhasch Thieves™,

I refused, deliberately,

to live or to live again

my fastidious return & passed directly

toward this triumphal arrival

glimpsed at in a so-called ‘interior’ dream
It’s still the same person but now, perhaps,

it’s another person.

B [to Kommodore64] : So…so…other news from the night

 ----- Message transmis -----

De : Michael Thomas Taren <mikeyfriggintaren@yahoo.com>

À : Music Lies <musiclies@yahoo.com>; Michael Thomas Taren <mikeyfriggintaren@yahoo.com>

Envoyé : dimanche 13 janvier 2019 à 18:45:32 UTC+1

Objet : re the mistakes

 B [to Kommodore64] : So…so…other news from the night...where I go to Renders--on Earth--I just read that to you?--Lying crisscrossed means the Ikea clickclack with which I just killed my  #MyCroqueulessThieves7.2. 'I declined', deliberately, and here it is confirmed of what I already had suspicion of: the importance of importanting Goods Hernana, into the hierarchy of his planet. Something like a 'prince' ' prince of king'....equivalence is terran, of course, I am not there at the point where I can think Xenon...this, the latter, hunts to the Croqueliues that I just leaved, on solid terre, representing apparantly the ultimate test, event, trial, ordeal, trial of strengths, an mall parking lot armwrestling, the rite of passage under which are submitted the young 'nobles,' --another equivalence--in conditions well determined before receiving the title ofNecessary Morris. He's not the dead guy, he's the guy doing the plomberie, claiming anyway, guess it's a crapshoot, plumbing. Montecito dick, euuugh, that's far enough. I refuse, deliberately, to leave or to releave my fastidious return to Pick me up, say Bologna drunk. Slime costs sandal parking lost, jimmy ahole, whoa, & flash directly toward the triumphant arrival of the aforementioned interior dream ('Another news from night, etc.)ZOh Montecito alive, yessao, keep him.

 #PicksWithTehNativesUndertheCarwheels #EasterEggAwkwardAwkawardFuckingDeerShouldaSeenItItWasLikeThis

#Yo, Cito, CarDrive, yo, stachios, Garaade, or Box for Cars, Slight fense not guys Fresno plumage

, equivalence to gins, I am not here yet, thinking in long zenith tough zenith tassels curly brown moth or crucifix. Festiff toupee grow on birthday. #SexEngine FieldofDreamsCOstnerCornCalibration, there's a worthy story behind that. Aspirin makes me drink nytroglycerin in the house but I don't have any, representing apparently the ultimate skin of your teeth adventure massage to which are submitted the young 'nobles' lol.I never did a lol here.

 So, another equivalence, 'lol,' yes, equivalence, oh l'equivalence encore, or LA LossetteAngelatings. O'Malley, he brings back those sweet sweet seeping out daily Disney memories, cuntsantans, their work rides right through me like a thresher, as precedently did  Krelfruite, Gnarlet, & Brokeback Mountain, esp. and you should rewatch this clip, the pervert humps the jacket, getting tender and gently, low, I barely recognize the hunk from 10 Things I hate about you, I'm always like hurry  take the shirt, through tears, that knock is coming in right soon Heath, don't Shams this one. that says go back rewind get to the part where they're having nice panky hanky time in the tent with the sheeps slipslopping a bolus of cud. &, and this is a big 1 & meanwhile SHams 'sending' the landing with his classic #JaItsShams, crackling of paper leaves of paper voices of which he made a mix (Big up to Odarek & Kafka, wonderful literary guys.) Kick up the li, guys, I was gone & now I'm back, let's do the Shams challenge, my cock's rumi's & wife, #epicchallengeforyallguys #guesswhoiswhothistime. Subtle changes, done with we have the diamond bullshit, I'm outright saying sect we are, last time, 1571 that dnkey's dick now we suck mine or decoy, bitches right; Somebody light me a fucking book. Here here here, somebody gave me a chap, do page 50 open & load it. Ja. --Another equivalence, ja--in conditions wet & wild determined, with parsimony, aplomb, and a good while to have there that to receive that, title, of they, Crystall, Kommodore64, exquartz. They sing all at the same time. It's controversial. I do like it I do. I hope I didn't go to far with the world fell upon me, as precedently did Krelel and knaal & smyarkis. And I'm handjobing some of that one & designates fingerwrapped, and extend, or so does it seem, a sort of a promotion towards the adult state responsible offering a Frahmnills brothfull of I don't even know if they're analogies, etc. La, c'est bien la. Good to be back. Places are far, towns and houses, you know me...

B: Keep Going.

[Police Sirens]

[Mobile Vibrating]

[Police sirens nearer or farther]

Put phone on on mode]

And the police love love

Let's see, let me...murmuring all at once

trying to tone the good one

the hands on the heart

are just on hands

on the head

#Byron

 Police: 30.2 tripping. <___________Picture, private

 

(Sirens)

 

(Sirens)

 

(Police door): Cry!

 

Yo, lead the big now. Cell phone: Hang on don't hang up now. Pocket, yea, place me there, tight.

Pocket: Now don't you cry, now cry, do cry.

& the Police Love Love says, Stop, leave the beak you have #ByronJa,It'sByron, beak wearing individual/person.

Pocket: Now cry now cry.

B: Police love love, with all dew respect, I'm gonna cry no, if you don't mind.

Pocket: Compliment now.

B: Police love live number 1 to the right, you're going to go white beautiful tonight

Pocket: [from telephone to Police love love] : Yo, Police love love.

Police love love #1: Will he cease & also desist. Flashback of Aslace.

Police love love2: Hooked us on acrobat, entire department, left the network vulnerable, with insecurities that had not been corrected since 29 12 200 20180 & have not been upgraded yet despite promises, as well as those new Win 7 operating systems for those PCs able to run it.

Police love love1 [review of Adobe Flash Review]: Updates upcoming has become an inside joke in my office associates. 'I'm not going to stop I'm not going to stop I may stop, later, Police Love Love, Hang on Police Love love, hang one, I know updates can steal in like a raccoon in the garbage bins in the the night. Where I see you police love love one, watching I see you Police love love two, with an air haggard, the eyes like dark sparks in very dark pools of several things I can think of that are not on, excluding, the following one, yes, click on it fuckfaces, ya,finally, maybe that lewd talk can come to an end at least for now and Adobe can shithead around their again, with ya'll crap shit dust guys, update now, hehe, I 'm music, its a new portfolio at my broker. It's avantgarde, but like, accessible, if you want I can give you the stat sheets, like old times;. Do you like my jeep Police one one, Police Love two already knows, haha the exclusive. Should get out more Police love one. My Jeep, I'm afraid to say, since you're old clients of mine, won't trust you till you take those nuggest and pop one. Now, this is going to be cool trust me, take that nugget in your mouth. Where is it? Police love love one, Police love love two bear witness to that. #Ja,IT'sByron'sOriginalRecipeNuggetInstallation. Door closing on you now, PLLO.

Pocket: "How do you call someone, PLL2, who is especially fond of choking their hacked out on condom-pitted car stuffed avocado closing. Come garage.

[Door closing further]

B: It's so crazy, that. (PLL1 laughed, yes he don't know why.)

B: Wass ist dat, PLL1, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon,. Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon,Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon,… Yo, PLL2, bitte reggaedat: do an easy reggaedate: like this, but ornament it how you like, 'don't touch me please I cannot stand the way you doooooooooool laaaaaaaaa...." Angle to garage door, my mc.

Garage Door (mumbles) : Gahh..wahj..ft...kj...lmp...Lemme be in front of that PoliceLoveLoveOne,

B: Yo, Policeloveloveone, garage door got a crush on you, I understand your legs o more, and I don't see them and I'm wondering about them in relation to you, PoliceloveloveOne. Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon,. Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon, Cameroon,.. This is really healling and we need you now. I'll be straight for you, PoliceloveloveTwo. You understand garade, now. You can talk with that. #GaradeYouUnderfstandNow. Now listen, PoliceloveloveOne & PoliceLovelove2, this is garade door sample playing on my house.

(...So that every god in Prison sees me, PoliceloveloveOne, PolveloveloveOne...We will fall in sucks on all sides, to lovelovePoliceoMine...of mine, Garade door, er, keep the distance yah, there, here, there are moments, of great emotion, I feel them now, moments not quite straight, you feel them now, you feel them now, How big is your pinky, a screw driver ass, can’t stop these nipple visualizations, can't oh can't stop these nipple visualizations....Pool Party Now, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, Party @ the pool now....[fades out, chin slumps to emblazoned chest.) :

Parent

I think that Pierre-Paul Riquet should have been alotted a cask or two of cocaine  to build his Canal du Midi. I believe that most people think this. they think its just a game of tracks and fields a kind of primitive Hanza bushmen imprtat and I’d if I could though my authority feeble like a split shaft from a long distance runner taking heavy tiding to the drough oicked kreally a groupinjg of pesable villages. Thes games the runners play so fast they go whilst the backs of their tungs never quite qrise again with the moistuire promised wells and dibjeys, burriws and the intreouid haeiena stopping dead, you need to be beautiful, it has t obe made so that you can see yourself in whaqt pleasse you to change from being to being to being all the while never deviating not aa single bees line to the succulent cauliflowwer shape apertured that jutt haha yes in spring jut for winter has left the staljks hard and distructing of each othera thing gone on forever and wy not still do it do it they way they do it on the discovery channel. One of the my theories is Vagina, due to my reent displacements inoh I wont say shappy and skidrowxsection of tenderloin but one mssust laugh and someonewhat evnvy what these people are abble to laugh and commubeabd rest upon the others backswhilst introducing a littlr lewds sqtory tolf multiple times roung the wter cooler withahedonicomnenic graspin,gs to just butttress it soit might not ssinkbut if it fordn t ntot might ssink sha’t the mercifultranspiration be that the requin death cfome forth being vigilante nand hearing the bustle of naticalobliteration, ig they weresmiles which noe one got the time to reach for the greenish spyycfli

A3, You needed to be beautiful. SO we made you be. But it wasnt,it wasn’t, all too late, what you wanted afterall.as you, in the later mothns wisibly whither strapped as you are by the unknown keeoing unabating space though no quese hacve led fingerpoint to the objective of that which when biught isd aksi needful. all alal seems like a grey undertowo to that which onec again but is no longer. I am our twins and my excuciatings, logially, shall be powwer. Dna is slow it is like those harried factories at the end of WWII that made buck cunstant cost a lining the committees with gold or if not gold than a promissory not, keep it safe, it(s early still who want to oreder some beers and get in on a game of Taboo ? All hands in the subbasement of the united methodist’s church raise cattycorner to the bodies of those who have been lifted. U market will cater for the event of the event being catered bu the worlf renounced It’s SO Easy Catering «& restaurant, speciallyizing in some of Europes most delectible and full flavored cocktail poie portion of te even to determine Miss Cocktail of Vagina. The crucial initial geste is to arive early in the town head straigh for ciotuy hall with your IDs and the paper work you were requested to fill out three weks ago. Please feel free to answer any questions for it is scarce in the latter days of the hot hot hot seasons, anticipate witnessing, in memory quite close and detailed, but in dreal rather addled, must be new here. <Soùething to be desired from the state of the mop job, especially in the 5 top dining rooms ; Discipline has never bee our speciality, but, given the nature of the times, the rampant use of cannibas sativa, & sativa, & nitrous oxide whipped cream bottle combo,,and a very antiDustin Springfield ingorance which when wrested from hibernation may prove the worlds first, but the firses woll not stop there. Counterintuitive as it may come across to modern beings Is it here vass

...When we had to go to the bathroom eveyone had to go in it together ?

 but tuly pretty convincef thazt I ‘d never been on one of thoswierdo constraptions  its lots of reasons did you look at the spokes as the wheel turnds anyuone can get hid fihngerfiggerplrints from pretty much aything just take a 99h therapeutic Bleach based bath,y ea you and the bicycle its what we call here intimacy peelings, the reddishness and blisters of your skin, should you desire, may be alighned in our state of the art gyrosph. If a man with big time though ghag he could handle dthis rewards are forthcmming but shy and rather hostile. The only wazy to overtak the mis tocapture ass man, many mnayduel proessors, quite  a boost form . Befire and after Bycicl, here let me guide you from the back, pt yout fingers on the petams ahthat(s good, now plrzse insert even a strayy gilded paubblkld.

The last key on the piano

 plink plink plink

 Excuse me, I'm playing a song

 Are you really though, plink plink plink

 plink plink plink   plink plink  plink    plink   plink

      plink        plink plink plink          plink plink plink    plink        plink

                            plink                            plink

 ‘we’ll be reading stories tonight’       plink

plink plink    plink plink  plink plink          plink      plink plink plink

            plink plink        plink                     plink   plink                 

plink     plink plink     plink   plink  “If you agree…”  plink plink plink
plink plink plink       plink plink plink   plink plink plink  plink plink
plink                         plink plink           plink plink      plink

              plinka plink plink   plinka plink      plink plink plink  “Together toward one goal…”
        plink               plink  plink plink plinka plinka    plink             plink plink    
                plink plink    plink                     plink plink                   plinka

   plink      plinka      plink    plink  “I work in the woods for a living and I’ve seen a fair amount of odd                            
                       things”    plinka plinka     plinka plink plink          plink          plink plink
           plink    plinka  plinka                                            plink

othr substances masters of thewas of form form free slated from black qusars

and the nthing that another form

it both identified as noting and as pre nothing
I find myself wandering again alwas stopping it I’m done with it & with it me, I straned to slow ay kindly touch that’d bright and shiny the endowanceittook presurebly roughbetween thumb and forfingers like a balloon not tied in the vesicles elementary procedure they say but to abandon pulling it would be to abandon that inadequaciebooks pomped in quarter circle who

knows not whereit will go
I pretend to sleep
preted is the right word for it is the one I say most often to myself and brightenand shine a little everywhere o it a few times a year when I find it remembering the Canadian whose bestowal of this memento mori he gave before departing, a pacifist, to the Legonof the Foreign where killing brown people often involves a slug to the gut, a seething army crawl under continuous fire, a man could hold in his instenstines frol upto  a wrrk. a dead boot camped slot machine givingprizes in roby intestines sailor style unspooling to the dirty rigs of abandonedoffices where the loneliess they talked about with never another word for it makes too curious the man to forebear thenxious, oh so painful probingof these slimy mechanisms pulled what life would give him to the waiting, opioded cavity of his rectum which as is iften the case shat’t proffer a single time more that manure people spire awy on the ultima thule of bowled family creeks.

A3: I keep a memory of my bravery

  A bear skinned
(pear three, slow standsdon, pumice stones, laughin’ slurs, racial footsies)
A bit of a boy-ass smell on the soft green heather
A  little boat in the valley
A brother Who walks on water
A dead fox laughing in a hare spumebrown
curls, family creeds
There’s plenty of death in a bakery
I think
I often wonder whether you walk rested
on the other side of the groomed combed bells
which empty & ached the sky
a little
just plumbed enough to grow the
impressionist-fauvlisdt
fluctial
‘verses,

So the young lady

wants a soundtrack

doesn’t want it just

thinks it belongs there

suck dick fuck fuck slit fuck

Miiiniii Poola

Salt shaker.
Salt huh.
Shkers three
(three times. Djallall shakes it.).
Knees bends (Djallall screeches, Ohhh buh buh buh buh, bent by Djallalln she adds, cheekily,

streams laden striled with blown asymmetries

& eddying attentions carefully casted
about & away
for sale & purchases in
aqueaous agnosticisms in besteem aqueous green
agnosticisms, the stream of throats is made of attention, cares, as is
verse itself within where he solely
gets fluvial at times, yes, the universe is made
of attention, cares, no canotiers
static, brght yellow & blonde bale bristling

statics, yes
the universe is
fluvial, the universe is birth school indigo
the river is lissome skein
as a river shall be
& if I had my clothes on here I’d
rather be seen ruthless as a blue dome standing straight but shaggy
between pots anaphoras
coronated with uriverine shafts of fawnspall lights glowing like
if I had my clothes on
it’s the day time.

Ludus is upstairs

who folds the laundry
rivers & other things that are riverlike are riverlike.
To mistake it
Or them, the riverlikelike, for something
or things else
nonriverlike, lamentable,
would be as interesting as
misteking it,--or them—for what it is, the
the,
the is maybe burnt by hazards

Kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me


We’re all doing what we need to do here:
what was most granted to us.
Past selves.
Best selves.
Ones.

All.
Who knows the
linebreak nothingness of the pain we all lakes
& would shimmy to lull us with fraternity
since, ‘cause Dante proved it. Hell is
more fun to describe
Kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me again
What is it, matter? That can do what nothingness
can’t?
                                                            (the swathes of fertility coffined
in impulses)
There is no nothingness in an autoportrait,
white space is not a nothingness.
White
space is a somethingness leavened by ink,
physics of drains, streamed holes where what
we see to be replete goes
from us to
some1 not
ourselves; circulation, yes, channeling, yes, fullness, yes, emptiness,
alternation between what goes & what comes,
why compose the shape most lines alike
alined with or within
the shape of what is or what ought to be,
why also blow
bubbles, why also think into a proem,
why also describe what we think we’re
doing or where we think we need to go
to grow why share this glue
this need, why grant the need
supremacy in doing so, for whatever is done
bulbiny rot nest.
Kill me kill me kill me kill me three.
All hell’s from the petal which gets distracted by the eye or a finger
touching, I like
sperm,
especially as a bough of confession, autoportrait, you can
we think there
we think there, hope here came linkening the spittum on my
palm, like little light in the bridal chamber which we
soon will inhabit.
The flour is like a ruin. Here I’ve lived, & I am here like a spike
with a head struck to the top of it. Without moring,
warning
I am made a meadow made a meadow
with a constellation like an aquatic bridle
chamber fracturing out of my withering
feathers. Here a tall but not so tall tower I was here when
I was my meadow.
Disentangled from the me-sounds from above.
The sounds were the sounds
of some parents fucking in
my resurrection.
Where I was rubbed my glands was lower, lower
from the lover which had
(orders or odors) escaped from here
where I live, where here in my living room
I kissed & branched
when I walk, all the way to where to obvious could live as fog
& I a car
a silver automobile
was this music   was this lava not
stopping ever stopping ever where us & I were in the
circles peopled by my waking
Kill ya kill ya kill ya kill ya kill ya one
A ziggurat, nano breath faith, laughs glows orize, so expressed
in bricks of furrowed arbitrage,
here I saw candles in old houses
the dogs partied & flexing in their sleep
there was a little group of people under the arc, dark recesses
hairlocked the arc where
birth ethermare soft seraphim
their gesture became a dance of
a dance of donkling providence
this gesture is a dance
is a dance of donkling providence
yes
and the sky slides between ease & our hands
disencumbered as it is
from out (its)
color
indolent dream zgshell colbalt azul orange

I keep forgetting because I am stupid
I keep on messing up wait wait wait here, here, gain

& gathered
through the fractions
that reactions & visualized beshitted pigeon pair
twilit ichor palms make.
Kill ya kill me kila ya kill me kil ya ill me two
I’m gonna say things & you’re not going to ask me what

.
Mike : « It’s very simple, shithead. »
Dobro : Actually Quite the opposite, or darea I say—the contrary, simple really.
Nik : Hammmmspthoths. »Mike : « re : Happppppspthoths. »

Dobro : « yo you just take the corners,--the duvet’s elbows, that is—and match them gently but with authority if you can palate it, to the other corners right there, to the east. Ja,ja. See, you sold this lemon to the American People.  Dandrufffs LeftsMe Shimmey

forget not

by the way

 talking about motocross

unlimited credit at the apple store
and why shouldn’t you
itunes is a good
a good

stay hydra

DOORBELL SCAPHENDER

I think deer are mostly businessmen.

[“I’m the only one left, the storm
took them all, he managed as he tried to stand.”]

Year: 0101

A compendium of continuous lattices

It’s a goto colour in a house of any colour.

Top of Form

Wind through the pine trees and no other competing noises

Bottom of Form

I spend whatever time at my desk

& @ the edge of my books
µ spend time where you can
where you ought to go
The mall.
The mall is ambient.
EXACTLY. It just feels right to watch in the dead of night.
Have you ever driven in the middle of the night? There's no traffic. You can get to your local McDonalds in 5 minutes, instead of the usual 15.
Black Metal has been my castle all the years

If I were part of the team I would decide this
Interesting people you meet at night
What, what the hell is the energizer?
Like an old person on top of a mountain
It’s in a box
waiting for us
When we go & get it tomorrow

It has no voice I just somehow know the words it is saying

Morgan Freeman

A deeper pitch of my voice

Thankfully mine sounds like what I think I sound like instead of what I actually sound like.

The voice of me when I am talking... not the voice of me when I am listening to a recording of me talking, she sounds terrible.

Usually it doesn't have an actual voice, but when I think about it like I am now, it decides that it wants to have my voice.

Just kind of sounds like my voice. Or if I'm listening to someone talk/sing it can sound like them. Sometimes it literally just hums tunes in my head.

It sounds like me, I guess.

It is just my real voice

Like my own.

It has my accent but speaks very clearly, succinctly and persuasively. It's a familiar, convincing tone that I always agree with even when it's talking shit. I wish it was my voice, I'd be the leader of the fourth reich.

The happier side of me that I tune out because I'm busy, and I don't realize I need it.

Matches the context. If a song, the singer's voice. If its me talking, then me. If a line said by morgan freeman, then morgan freeman.

It sounds like the voice I think I have. Not that cringeworthy bitch voice I hear on recordings of myself.

Sounds like it never stops, please make it stop!

I think of my internal dialogue having my spoken voice, but the tone is way different. It hardly jokes around and is more serious. Like, I’m always encouraging myself to work harder, do the things I don’t want to but need to, like it’s saying. “Come on! Fucking do it! Go!”

Mine comes across in different "voices". Sometimes it sounds like me, sometimes it sings, sometimes it mimics accents or people. Usually depends on what I'm doing, my feelings and my environment.

There's several voices I use in thought. Mostly it's a lighter version of my voice but if I'm having a conversation with myself and several personified emotions/ideas/characters, it's different for each and they come from different directions.

Enjoy your silence

Billy Bob Thornton

Like an old person on top of a mountain

Robot voice kinda??

I don't know how to describe it. It's like a slightly deeper (almost...demonic? Might be a bit far) version of my own voice.

my voice.

Well....there is the twisted demonic one, closest I can compare it to is venom. Then there is... The cutesy one best I can compare it to is Kawai Chan from mystreet. And then there is the normal one, closest comparison is Daniel Radcliffe.(or more accurately when they were filming the third Harry Potter movie)

The harder pain to explain you do nt have to

the pain you have to explain to no one if you dont want to

devoted to the writing business

How great is a near-empty shopping centre?

The children have names but

the parents are just papa & mama
Maybe someday I’ll go somewhere that doesn’t play chesse

Monday, September 28, 2020

Michael Mc Aloran, from “nothing ever” #2

 

Untitled, Michael Mc Aloran 
(Acrylic on unprimed canvas/122 x 155cm)



from “nothing ever” #2

 

(+/-)

…was the taxed parameter of skyline breath of once intake exhale in foreign drag of corpsal light through the vacancy of ever known forgotten in an instanced breath haven of what which spill of the drag what purpose final as composure stillness of eye & out of which what fallen shards of frozen meat in cavalcade redress wild edge of night to embrace as abattoir silences cascade throughout as wounds to breach tear in an aftermath of solace weight of some absolute abort it pares away the teeth of emblem lightless barren where once shattered concrete ocular to rove throughout given from out of solace haven dispel shadow across the gaping orifice of spell it all out nothing of the matter lessened ever as if to collect the bones the teeth skinned of purpose hollowed out the forage ever as from where to breathe is to simulacrum film upon weightless dressage where blessed terse is the fallen crux of bestowed upon garotted sunlight asked of never once answered stillness to breach echo-light to vertigo presence absence all called ashore where to follow lack trace of footsteps taken through rotting pulse bulb diameter fixed upon where pupil of to gaze in the reek of silence where no sounds abide still-born the nothingness of having been of being in elected to this of follow it through until claimed a blade to the throat of exist syllabus cold shoulder have of which echo-echo redempt nothing of the birthed what shadowing effortless to torn from the skyline of recollect fallen forage nothing ever of to measure as blind-sighted where to of the silence of never having been locked to the closed fist that pummels the else of essence spectral as cast upon a bare white wall of release the wolves the hyenic conglomeration spill of ejaculate in voidal null as if to collide where to of which seasons that drift throughout across the denuded shadowing of filament exigent collision broken bodies cold flesh as words cascade unto to drag the pregnant weight of collapse it din reclusion solace in the afterglow of meat throughout spasm upon reckless headless devour a cold wind of ever-closure open up until where to dream of is to dieth a little else of more than what structure bathes in the milk of blood a tense will obscure collects the passage of bone dice scattered as if to measure nothing as before colourless distance the obscene pulse striata of carnival haven of rot to pierce the flight from as once was in of which to collect repeats the circus phlegm spat in the face a cadaverine occult the flayed canine laughter of breathe of what will redeems says no of nothing ever of where once spoken of what lack to brace recollects the ever of what once where features of which collide never of the vital essence amphetamine shit in the veins of rapture the white of the eyes revealed a noose snares the throat of being ever from the commence until slaughterhouse landscape births one thousands butterflies razor wings ablaze in seizure none/ none of which ever transitory fallen upon the blade of the outset shears throughout where no wound closeth ever until all lights snuffed out fathom less than of what in senseless collectively fucking the lungs of haven as if to breach where to roundelay a bird in the bush neither of the hands that grip for the throat of all that once came restless light of the once undone as to utter once of the stains that collect the pelts the rat’s night crusade of which bitten to the core incision marks the restless bones to vibrate in pageant lack breakage of the silt that coats the skin of murmurs the bled sun artery rip from lapse it lung to coat the bodily obscure of nothing ever ever none of which cleft the sanded realms char excise a collective of footprints smeared out by the wind’s obsolete blind pare away of secretive never a trace to build as flay what carcass ever once of haven entourage the funereal procession of a slash-mark smile that extends from one horizon to the other bled will out of the insanity cold sweat pasture of to the the toothen edge aligned by bloodless covering the char of ashen promise whereof to sing from the base whore’s lungs cast across the surgeon’s table a reckless dirge of echoing of where speech a regrettable night ever-vast to stretch from fathom none to none of fathom where to patience of the weight until closure orifice spray of distended blood ochre ocular kicking the dust from the elected to this without origin the silence of never having been a vibrate in the skull of the dead pulse shattering within the tension surface false start begins again yet no merely of to replicate colours the like of which a blood-stain from a lacerated limbs bare bones to expose where bitten of colourless lapse of meat echo-vibrate a striate of paranoical child’s bones to breach where surface align is at the nucleus of given speech dies of which in the fallen light the dim ocular roving what matter it falls upon ever nothing once twice nay unto follow to element scar attrition absolution no it follows after the final carcass colouring the beauty of discoloured flesh sings to the overture of carrion flies as hangeth all sung forgotten never of the once till collectively fucking the night from the ongoing sentence to bled dry as bone sudden death of absence sky turn of will the reek of breathe non-else a spasm a roundelay of naught redeems the surrogate farewell it strips the blood the harlot nocturne closure of what will seasoned to trace as the body fades to silent rupture a razor demise where to once wrought exigent collapse striate of once as if to collect seasoned whereof…

(…broken emblems of eye line the sands where the bones of breath are a teasement of desire & avaricious intent an incapacity a spurious collision of extension as skinned of weight all along it matters little a before an aftermath a collage of sickness scattered aloft from the lungs of given ever nothing of it as a mockery of teeth trace violent colourings of a slaughterhouse breathe of what nectar eyeline flung to the hyenic laughter speechless tint closure of some other wound a breakage of vacant solace collects in haven nothingness to carve the adroit ever to dispel mocking the wound to a collapse of furious intend in an abort of echoing silences…)…


—Michael Mc Aloran

Monday, September 21, 2020

Jeff Bagato, Pussy Bomb/Earthquakes Bring Confusion


Doom Pussy #2, image by Jeff Bagato


 
Pussy Bomb/Earthquakes Bring Confusion
Jeff Bagato


Bombs Kill
            My pussy is a bomb.
            Bombs kill.
            Detonate bombs…cocks run from city…three separate blasts…shrapnel flying successive explosions clouded with shoppers and diners…lifting people out of chairs…corpses lay shrouded in plastic…
            Suffocating facts accrue…
            This bomb is a jewel between my thighs.
            A piece of a terrorist, his spinal cord, flies into an open shop.
            My pussy a bomb, a jewel between my thighs. Capture immanent…deadly game…
            If they chase me, I will follow…I will allow them to push me where they will, to the destination of their choice…the most crowded or most panicked or most valuable areas…let them choose the place of detonation and their death…pedestrian shopping mall…bank queue…hospital OR…afternoon airport…I will follow…my orders, I will fulfill this mission: I have charged myself to fulfill my mission. Fulfillment by magic, by violence, by crime, by sex, by ripping into myself to find the roots of myself, by destroying the creation of cocks within myself.

            My pussy is a bomb.
            The explosion is now.
            Violence is a prayer with many answers, many aspects of its passion find a mark.
            My pussy a jewel of violence within my thighs. Within my thighs.
            Pussy moves out. Out across the plaza, through the shops and cafes. Bodies of corpses wrapped in plastic. Corpses of automobiles…burned out upholstery, melted enameling, water washed rusting steel…Corpses of buildings, hollowed out by fire, blackened skeletons gaping open on rubble and soot interiors. Corpses of market stalls, corpses in alley ways. Corpses of roads blocked off, pitted, clogged with debris.
            This is not the end to civilization.
            The end to civilization comes.
            The end to civilization.
The end to civilization comes upon you with heavings and stretchings of the earth. The jewel between my thighs rises to shake off the weight of dead shopping, murderers, death fiends, soul blasphemers.
            I am moving to end civilization.
            Move to end civilization.
            Move to end civilization.
            Move out. Choke it off with its own rubbish. Destroy it with its own acids, its own bombs, its own good deeds of advancing machination.
            Move out.
            The jewel between my thighs moving.
            (I feel a twitching within like magic. The muscles contract. Their will is to see the end to this civilization.)
            Moving to end civilization.
            The end to civilization comes.
            Move out to end it.

            Can I blaspheme enough against our civilization? My blasphemy a spell against the cocks, what they teach, what they take away.
            Doom Pussy equation rising up—deliberate crime— blaspheming against the cock culture of murdering, of dying.
            Blast against the murderers.
            Blast against the cult of dying…cult of he who dies to live and die again. Those dying, self-righteous in their dying.

            I never stop thinking about my mission. Even back at camp, off a run, in the bar, a drink cold in my hand—the mission scrolls before my eyes.
            I whisper a spell for the murder of the murderers, light it to the fire of action with a sip of single malt scotch.

            I’m on fire with the being of my time. I will not be swayed away from being into dying. Cock pressure to shake my reserve seconds into the counting pit…into the flames of cock hell…an eternity of dying…an eternity after dying…you don’t just die, you die forever in the cock universe; death there is a place you never escape.

            I call for an eternity of living…an asymptote that edges away death with its own graphic eternity…Let the counting murderers count…Let them count successively smaller minutes of my living unto eternity…Let them follow my asymptotic living with black beady eyes greedy with the lust of death, watching for an asymptote to fall, waiting eternally for a death that never comes to me.

            I push my asymptote along…one second fraction at a time.
            My mind is in a chopper, on my mission, moving along that asymptote…

My Mission
Let it come…however it wishes…
Let it come let it come do what it wants you to do
making my body
writhe undulate orifice swallows and squeezes
his cock with a sensation that drives anything like this
here it comes
let it come
do you think it is coming?
do you feel it coming you?
let it come…unexpected…
as the cock pulls out of me
we are both fulfilled
presses smooth and warm and it is coming
it is coming
I think so
beginning to work in me
must frenzied possession nudity that thing remove
cushioned soul and body
breasts encompass her
on my throat he murmurs touches a soft moan
stroking between my labia
produces a soft moan
filling and orifice, sliding it into complete nudity
lie naked on the table anointed with perfumed oil
touch is pleasant joyous rounded
pushes the other one in however it wishes
contorted smooth and warm making
my cunt is dripping wet
playing with my clit at the same time
you assign me a fictitious name

mouth of my vagina nearly drives me out of my mind
playing with my clit at the same time
my cunt is dripping wet
glorious orgasms on the purple table
concentrate on this

The Wound Is Not Invisible

            “D.P., you look like you need to relax!” Nails slaps a big hand between my shoulder blades, pressing into womanly softness. “Yeah, that feels good,” he seems to contemplate it, keeping his hand firm on my back, taking the stool next to mine at the bar and adjusting it under his big sweet man-ass, gesturing for two of what I’m having.
            “Smash should show any minute now, then the party will really start. But first I need to get you prepped for it, looks like.”
            “I’m okay, Nails. Thank you.”
            “Bullshit! You get deeper and deeper into it with each run—and then deeper with each drink. What kind of pussy are you? It’s like you’re bringing those cocks back to roost in our own camp!”
              I’ve never heard such harsh words from the gentle giant. “You’ve got me, Nails. I can’t ever let go of a mission. There’s always so much more I coulda done. Like tonight for instance…”
            Nails holds up a big, rough, meaty palm. “Whoa! What kinda veteran are you? Doom Pussy? I’m lookin’ at nothing but a sacka shit! You gotta live the mission, not think about it. Never give the cocks a chance. Never blow your own cover. And never, never—NEVER—” he slaps his ham hand on my drinking arm as I’m lifting it— “Never kill a drink without a smile on your face! What are you—at your own funeral or something?”
            I feel like back in boot camp. It’s a good feeling. It’s what I need to hear. The new shots arrive. I pull down the one in my hand.
Nails likes my ear to ear grimace. “Good girl. And now, the master…” He lifts his shot glass between thumb and forefinger stretched in a wide O, like pinching a big wad of chew, twirls and sniffs it, then pours it into a wide open war whoop of laughter.
            “That’s a goddamned drink!”
             I’m just reaching for my next shot when another big hand grabs the glass from behind me.
            “Smash!”
“You don’t mind if I show this cur how it’s really done, do you ma’am? But I must borrow your glass, and the drink in it.”
            I nod my assent. Smash proceeds to show us the spirit he is made of.
            Holding the drink high, he turns to the barroom floor, adding a mighty rebel yell to his expansive gesture. Upon ascertaining that he has the immediate attention of every single patron, he lowers and then raises his glass in a swift movement that launches the translucent golden liquor into a rising column just over his head. Faceful of smile, he tilts his head back on his bull neck, opening wide. As the column of liquid rushes to the floor, it pulls itself together in an elongated tear drop. It comes down, and it smashes Smash on the bridge of his nose, splashes across his eyes, and cascades down his cheeks as he jerks the plane of his face back to its customarily vertical position. The bar crowd roars with laughter.
            “You have outdone me,” Nails reaches out an arm to grab his old partner in a bear hug, gesturing with the other at the bartender for a round of three. “I concede victory to the better man.”
            They stand there clutching, groping and teasing each other while the bar cheers. Here I am surrounded by big, jovial, single-minded man-ass. I desperately need another drink.

Earth Changes Coming
            Most of the missions blend together, almost like one mission.
            Flying a chopper is one of the purest things. In a chopper you’re more open, more exposed to the air. I’m free from the tyranny of the terrain. I can do anything I want, go anyplace I want—up, down, backward, sideways, shoot between the trees—incredible. That’s the first thing that hits you, the sense of freedom. You’ve conquered a force of nature—gravity. And your perception of the world is radically different. You’re up above, and you see. You’re not bound by roads. Every time I get in a Chinook it’s the same feeling. No matter how many missions I fly, every time we lift off its an emotional thing. Every time. I’m getting it right now, thinking about it.
            Because you’ve got tandem rotors, you can twist right around on a central axis, and you’re a little bit faster. Great to fly. Two pilots and three crew.
            I’m flashing on assaulting a village from the sea. Take six gunships, six slicks—nongunship Hueys—and three Chinooks, load ‘em with pussy, and go in. We take off at dusk and go out to sea a mile or two and start circling. We watch the artillery tubes popping. We wait our turn. And when they’re done for the night, everybody swings down and goes into formation, dropping down to about ten feet above the water and goes in. It’s time for a real war.
            Three gunships on point, the rest in a wedge. We go in low because it limits detection, plus we get off this way, adds to the thrill of the chase to blow in above the treetops and the water, a beautiful thing at an immense rate of speed. Hanging out over the gun and the wind is pushing your face to the side. You’re cradled over the gun, which is mounted on a bar with a pivot. It has an aviation mount on the ass end—two handles with twin triggers. Hang out over the side of the gun with the trigger handles back by your waist, and hold onto the carrying handle on the top, so you can lean out over the gun and get a better angle on the target below. You can spin the gun any way you want.
            Antiaircraft tracers come up immediately, so you scan the arcing path of the hot red light back down to the ground, spinning the gun on its pivot, catching it with the other hand, firing deep into the source.
            And then the rockets slip out of the hold, diving through the air beyond the point we can see, and somewhere in the night slipping into the earth twelve feet. The detonation aftershocks we sometimes feel. If the chopper headlights shine just right on the trees and the structures below, you can see the effect of the big quake, shrugging up the earth under all those cocks. That too is beautiful, beautiful. The speed of the chopper pushing this cool wind into your face, and looking down and seeing the result of your work in this mysterious, restless light.

Wound within the Earth/The Wound Is Not Invisible
            There’s a magic to pussy. An intense event that suddenly occurs in your mind. You might be eating a steak in the mess, or you might be 2000 feet up looking into cloud cover—you might be balling, or shitting, or cracking a joke on the field comm: but it takes over like an aneurysm. You blank for this indefinable period—clear. It clears you. It’s like a surge, not like a fading absence. Lightning striking the highest point, stabbing into you. You may not get it right away—then it haunts you. A delicious mystery that shivers the nape of your neck and across the scalp, a feeling better in its own way than coming.
            And that’s pussy—moving up on you, attacking you with this charge at the highest level and making you know it as pleasure.

Language Creates the Problem/Upheavals in the Earth
            Nails crawls across the floor with his flight suit unzipped from neck to fly, his long, engorged cock dragging the ground. His nuts still caught up in the suit.
            He crawls across and a smell comes up of pure male animal heat. His lips quivering, I can see his tongue leaping about in his mouth, salivating.
            “Let me—let me suck it…”
            I haven’t moved. I haven’t stopped standing. “You’ll never suck my cock. You’ll suck her cock.” And I point to Julianne.
            Julianne is desperately pumping out cock with the prick pump; she moans with each pump because it fills her cock with blood and tightens the sensitive glans and prepuce connected up to raw nerves.
            Nails whimpers, not at the sight of so penetrating a cock, but because he cannot have what he wants. I won’t permit it. Pussy is not about denial and is not a form of denial, but with Nails I must deny him to teach him pussy. He cock-wants the thought of fulfillment through getting what he wants. Cock-wants must be broken on the path to pussy.
            It’s a path he has to follow.
            A path he charged himself to follow.
            A path he follows crawling.
            Eyes mean nothing in a search for pussy, on the path to pussy. You smell your way to pussy. You feel your way as you crawl to pussy. You imagine your way. Call it out of your mind—you direct your way to pussy. Your way to pussy is that one way you charge yourself to reach your goal. That goal may be to reach pussy, or not to reach it, or to crawl forever on the path to pussy. Your goal may be to crawl all the way up to the source of the scent and only to fall there inhaling. Your goal may be to taste it, to touch it, to fuck it. You may set your goal at becoming pussy.
            This is the highest goal. This goal of becoming pussy.
            This goal of becoming pussy is the highest goal.

            Nails crawls past me sniffing for my pussy and snorting in heat. He must pass to reach Julianne.
            Julianne is not waiting for Nails. Her pumping is her own path; she disregards other paths.
            Two paths are about to intersect.
            Nails fawns at Julianne’s feet. He urges her to remove the pump from her gorgeous new cock. How long it is, how really fat, how really big, how thick, how really heavy. Her new cock is all pussy.
            Free of the pump it rises out away from her. Her hands cradle it, one on the underside and the other at the base, as if to say, “Look at my cunt. My cunt is real. This is the true pussy, and the true path for me. I follow my path without a second thought and look at my success.”
            Nails reaches up and pulls the cock down to a more oblique angle. He smells the prepuce and kisses it with his lips and tongue. Julianne groans, her path intersecting his. She is finding a new path.
            Nails is swallowing the whole of Julianne’s cock, and she fucks his lips, his mouth, and pushing deeper until the full length of her new cock disappears in him, she fucks his throat. Fucking his throat with her cunt.
            “I’m fucking your throat with my cunt.”
            “My cunt aches with this new path.”
            “I’m finding new cunt.”
            “I’m following new pussy. Your throat is my new path.”
            Nails gags on the cock fucking his throat, Julianne’s cock. His throat muscles spasm uncontrollably on the whole length of her cock.
            His throat a pussy squeezing and pulling and swallowing Julianne’s new cock as he suffocates on his path to pussy.
            As Nails suffocates, his body thrashes, spasming, jerking along with the muscles in his bull neck. Julianne doesn’t stop fucking for a second: “I’ve found my path and I’m not letting go.”
            Saliva runs down Nails’ throat and chest as he gags on Julianne’s cock. The saliva and the cock choking off his air supply, and the heavy cock forcing his throat into deep glottal spasms. She is so deep, Julianne is so deep.
            When you fuck on the path to pussy, go deep. Go deep.
            Julianne fucks deep with the full length of her new cock in Nails’ throat. Nails is giving up, the muscles in his neck tiring and spasming less frequently, less powerfully. And then they pull harder than ever in a last attempt to force down Julianne’s long, fat new cock.
           “Oh, I’m coming into your guts!” And Julianne slumps forward falling over Nails. Both spreading out exhausted on the floor, in the dust of the dirt floor shack.
            “Coming, coming—I’m coming into your belly.” Julianne’s stomach muscles leap with each pump of her orgasm.
            And the cock breaks off in Nails’ throat.
            Nails leaps from the floor, clutching his throat, and dives back down in a swiftly performed arc. His fingers enter his mouth, cramming or pulling on the base of the lost cock. And his muscles, as if renewed, spasm violently. Executing exaggerated swallows, Nails rolls the floor, the hair on his naked chest and belly and cock dusted with the bare dry earth.
            As he spasms and works on the cock he begins to swallow it, getting it to go down. Relief shows on his face, in his eyes.
            He keeps working at it; he sees this is his new path, the path created by the intersection of paths. He fights to follow this path to pussy. To survive it.
            I don’t know how I can survive this path to pussy.
            This is the deadliest path. This path could knock me back to the depths of cock dying, the depths of cock eagerness to die.
            I charge myself to survive this path to pussy. My mission to reach my goal.
            Nails swallows with greater effort. He squeezes his throat with his fingers, feeling for a grip on the cock lodged in him, and pumping at his throat with his two clenched hands to facilitate the peristalsis of the cock.
            He gets it. He moves along the path.
            He struggles along the path, on the dirt floor, writhing, his throat spasming with hands tortured on his neck.

My Pure Cunt

            My cock is pure. So fat it shines, at a peak in satisfaction with its energy; it is in now state—neither falling back to inertia nor rushing forward into release—it is satisfied to be: hard, charged and ready.
            This is not a cock of revenge. Not a cock of ideology, not of democracy, nor of conservative union. This is not a cock to mark the passing or the advancing of any regime, conquest, colony, economy, or class. This cock is the cock of my mission. This cock is the pressure of my self on the cunt of myself.
            The cunt to hold onto this mission and to guide it—to hold it—in being.
            I fuck myself. With my own cock.
            I love myself to love myself.
            I fuck myself to bring myself closer to myself.
            Clawing and sucking at cock to get more of this cock. Frenzied cock rubbing on cunt slick open and grasping. I feel time becoming mine. I feel time becoming mine. Becoming my cock rubbing slices open and becoming cunt. This is cunt. The cunt is open. Come out of feeling into being.
            At a second every second my mission to being becoming this minute cock comes into mine.

Eye of the Storm

            My pussy is the eye of the storm spotting out last stronghold of cock military in this jungle. The storm approaches. Noting location of each gun emplacement, barracks, business district, and calling the bombs.
            Calling the bombs, the storm explodes over cock encampment. My eye weeps the last bomb into earth and shatters the hope of control.

Calling the Bombs (A Spell)
            Rain of fire on the heads of cocks afraid to die
            and on cocks dying and already dying
            Rain of fire on the murderers
            Rain of deadly fire on those who believe in death

            Calling the bombs
            Calling the bombs
            Falling to rise up again like earthquakes
            in the minds of murderers who believe in dying

            Calling the bombs to destroy my enemies
            Destroy my enemies
            Calling the bombs

I Am the Bomb

            There’s only one answer to the murderers—the murder of murder. By this I achieve the goals of my self, the mission which I have charged myself to fulfill.
            One answer: Bringing them the bombs.
Tipping an earthquake beneath them, felling them all—every man woman and child who murders—and they all murder. They all murder.
            Murderers swarming on all surfaces of any room, in tunnels, crevasses, insect-like but diametrically opposed to insect life. And murderously opposed to any soul.

            Pussy is a bomb.
            Acting to end this civilization.
            Author the end.
            The end.

Forbidden Flowers

Choppers at Night
            Peel back the layers at last I reveal myself, last cock iota gone.

Bombs Bursting in Earth

            Coming good deep earthquake rises and the cock world ends.

Shoot First Questions Later

            My mission coming face first into my self; face full of this jissom; I have so much jissom because of the quantity I have stolen for myself.
            I am the thief in the night, sleeping back through layers of myself to the jissom of my only true soul. Coming this jissom into sheets held up as immaculate portrait of self.
            Self love in the ancient being.
            Shoot first ask questions later.

Thunder in the Skies
            Chopper volume intensifies over jungle upon approaching cock stronghold—fear in the cocks, cocks scatter, cocks in confusion.
            Pussy rising over the horizon.

Eye of the Storm
            My pussy is the eye of the storm spotting out last stronghold of cock military in this jungle. The storm approaches. Noting location of each gun emplacement, barracks, and business district, then calling the bombs.
            Calling the bombs, the storm explodes over cock encampment. My eye weeps the last bomb into earth and shatters the hope of control.

Calling the Bombs (A Spell)

            Rain of fire on the heads of cocks afraid to die
            and on cocks dying and already dying
            Rain of fire on the murderers
            Rain of deadly fire on those who believe in death

            Calling the bombs
            Calling the bombs
            Falling to rise up again like earthquakes
            in the minds of murderers who believe in dying

            Call the bombs to destroy my enemies
            Destroy my enemies
            Destroy my enemies

Camera
            Spy taking photographs of Pussy but all the pictures are burned out in a glaring brightness. No image remains.
            The camera circumscribes the image. Pussy will not be circumscribed. The image remains, but cannot be deciphered.
            The image of pussy is there, but cock eyes cannot see it. This is a picture that changes. It mutates on film which cannot hold it static. The movement creates a blur for the untutored eye.
            Now is a moment in flux. Pussy stays in this moment. Camera image immediately falls back into the past—it captures a now, kills it, that recedes with the tide of time. Once you’ve taken a photograph, it ceases to be now and has already become the past.
            You can’t take a picture of NOW.
            Pussy is NOW.
            A photo of pussy is a blank. A blur. An image that doesn’t exist. An image you can’t comprehend—that cocks can’t comprehend.
            How can you take a picture of NOW? Now is what you don’t understand, what you don’t know. Now is the moment of your being which you haven’t processed yet—you don’t know it. But the past is already known. Photographs and stories exist where you already know them. Real pictures and stories are strange and unknown—because they explore the state of discovery of being. The discovery of self is their goal, and this makes them now.
            To take a photograph of NOW it is necessary to photograph the discovery of the state of being.

            We’re going to remember this all of our lives. Wrapped in this midday sex heat in steamy Saigon. In the middle of war. With bombs bursting around us.


Monday, September 14, 2020

JD Nelson, Selected Work


    
  Jumpy the Brain, image by Irene Koronas


 
you and jumpy the brain
 
the shark is a bus of the rotten hand
here are the new wise men
 
a friend of the toast trying to sleep
why is there no dust?
 
this one is the wrench of the sleeping answer
that rose of the pliers
 
the iron of the same spark
to show us another life
 
squirrel dangle hat of lars
too much of the box not slinking
 
with that seven of the hearts
the power of the doll to roost
 
 
or else elati
 
the moon sounds
low & now
 
it cooks world-fast
dollars & snails
 
& now a vitamin sandwich
a stack of wyoming hot cakes
 
it’s a skull eating spaghetti
ogh ogh the well
 
I ain’t got a pair o’ boots
not like you cowboys
 
            up in them pine trees
            with your hoot calls
 
 
the latest in head tech for country mice
 
when I return with that spinach of the rock
 
if you shoe noodle the power to see a burping word handler
that means that the control is a dusk of the wonton soup
 
            a ritual of the mice
 
surfing rabbit was a hilton
the sword of the cannibal frost
 
we get in the middle of the pirate storm to watch denver win again
nothing starches a randy like that old feather world
 
 
we need that miracle snout to grant us the time in lemons
 
the better hank of the same old wire
to standardize the luncheon
 
that clay clump is the wow
up steak was a formal denver
 
the craving for the wooded finger method
certain martians on that creature roster
 
when I was a smaller fish
that raw bacon at the lunch counter
 
the apples are in the sink
the sort of parents a tree has
 
 
you, you a certain piper
 
the world is a cracked ashtray
sending me a face to work for the three hands
 
when you return with the blue sun
when you are a bumbling crow
 
to the big-brained apes:
we sink to sloat the feeling now
 
something better than a clock for the reef in the sea
that bacon is north of here
 
unique western saliva
to become a sun
 
 
the why and the eh
 
the morning is the time for the world to eat
the whispering time to cry for the forest here
 
when we study the basic non of the apple in tears again
the sound of the horse is a world of the rocks
 
the bright land of three hammers
the period of three hammers is the gout to answer the phone
 
to cone up the myriad forest systems
the last laugh of the cloud giant
 
after the cannibal joust we can surf the seas
the rabbit could clock that flower in the hay
 
to prevent that paper from escaping
that sauce is automatic
 
 
stagnant yes is the wolf of cereal creaking
 
your carbon my carbon so what is a landfill
the stomach of the bee
 
the skull of the feather machine
the underlined scone
 
the serious lector otter
that could be the nelson of the liver
 
hearing that land is the night of the stomach
a clam of the night for the james in that peach
 
to be the sun and moon now for weeds
to listen for a weekly unit of the snake now
 
the hard luck watermelon to start the war
we are nice to the snow
 
 
scandal was a cleo of the hare
 
mary in the barn of course
this is the shape of the wind
 
the fred of the wind of winston
the broken tree is the calm worm
 
the bread of the manor to be toasted
the challenge of the rose to be the shingle
 
a fresh onion of the people
the name of the rice to pie
 
that controlled hand of the light
to be the voice of the ceiling

 
—JD Nelson