Thursday, March 6, 2008

how's this for an ambiguous bit of self-serving martrydom- 7 am the mother of all unmarked graves'

oh, hello mr. robber man. before you completely break down my front door to rob then assualt me, can you just give me a sec to tape my favorite show; it's the season premiere.

she- my husband won't have sex anymore, he just watches and rewinds people doing it on tv

a bar for the czar with the shiny new car

pussalanimous stranded bus reprimanded by rust

limpid intimist intoning 'ibis invitro'

(in this part they've replaced the guitar solo with sounds of people

retching. I think that producer's since been sacked.)

charming, how special is your naivete at matters of home, hearth, and state, one without the concept of shelter- take me there, no?

oh, no harm done; sorry 'bout the arm though fist broke again, gotta stop goin' there for drinks

still, mirth will always side with me

how will the future romanticize this decade? probably as the last golden

generation of breathable air and ostensibly drinkable water

by the 24th century, they'd grown out of art and politics entirely

that comet zoomed down from amongst the heavens and told me to kick you in the shins

juggernaut, she is a culinary juggernuat, and you should see him at lamaze class- oh, this stinks, fire from above, scortch the arid plane of my 2am humor field, dry husks ablazing


all these centuries, never once stopping to ask paper and parchment how it feels about being the unbidden venue for our thought, maybe sometime next century trees will extend a grateful branch of thanks to the manmade computer circuit, friends clasped warmly together at the crossroads of mimesis.

a good head butt to th'nutts'll get him back into his practice module and workin' on that Bach suite

live long and shit smooth

attributes: sparkling green eyes, bruised kneecaps, big titties, chipped teeth, blotchy skin, no earlobes, erect dick, joined eyebrows, perfect wavy hair, bacon breath, unpopped zits, big ass, muscular arms, flat chest, rosy cheeks, nails chewed down, tatooed forehead, expression of monastic peace

mr. theatre- please provide me with an index of recognizable emotions, I might want to catalog them, noting the effect of their appearance upon a person's face. Who knows, I may learn to wear one at a later date. But why always insist on sending me rudely back out into the literal, daylit world, everything a starkly deliberate sequence of acts and consequences, and at the service of predictable goals. This is spiritual skating, smooth and unruffled, gliding With hardly a downward glance over ice. Seeing from above reliable reflections. Why not leave me submerged, mucking around deep weedy waters?

say this witcha fat funky self-

funky fresh fat fiiive ina'coo'lap jap

funky fresh fat fiiive ina'coo'lap jap

funky fresh fat fiiive ina'coo'lapjap

(ad nauseum or until someone hits you)

they gobble um down V the pullllaite cums back for hungry jack!
(cue scene of plaid workshirted giant beating family senseless in his
quest for more biscuits) *'•

if you saw your best friend's name included among the list of

ingredients on a cereal box, would it throw you?

it did me.

there he was, right after the digglyceredies.

chy chy whippasy! chy chy whippasy! chibbit! tire iron=good times

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