corpses
(written by patricia, tim, richard, jovan, and me) they are all exquisite corpses except for the last one which was created in a really convoluted manner that i won't go into.
To gather my strength for the long journey ahead, I filled my canteen with the warm frothy milk, straight from the nipples of a gay shaved shit eating retarded bear. Then we went to the beach and got attacked by a huge swarm of wasps cloned with sharks, nipples couldn't have helped us. They weren't enough to sustain us on our trek through the underworld. For this, we needed much more powerful and magical objects. So we built a giant penis to block the sun. All the feminists were pissed off, they became pale and male hating psycho cunts. We cut off our cunts in order to publicly institute and sanctify our masculinity. For whatever reason, the intellectual spineless liberals thought that this was a good idea, but soon enough they discovered the truth. And they deserved birth. To be born and reborn. Into vicious cyclical feedback loops of eternal assimilation and separation. Big words soon faded away, the ocean waves crashed, some crackheads smoked some crack, that they had scored in a past life and somehow managed to bring with them into their present incarnation. They smuggled addiction across the borders of time and space. Transdimensional drug runners creating their very own new reality. Complete with cylindrical apes and foaming rivers, lava oceans, and crustacean palaces. Reality is not a dirty word.
Memorizing mars in gemini sextiles, tear off the textiles, sex on the tiled floor tilted perspectives irrespective of age, sex, location. Things started to defy gravity so they passed laws, making it illegal to float over the white house. Always more laws, bullshit laws, and population control. Who needs people anyway? Might as well kill us all off. The only good human is a fuckin' dead one. Fuck humankind, fuck humanity! Kindly with insanity, and sobriety because consent can't be given while drunk or high on sky cock flying in time eternity. But the high didn't last long, and soon the sky cock became dangerous land cock. It flopped around like a fish out of water, many people saw this land cock. But besides all the fame of land cock, land cock had other qualities. Land cock could hold its breath for 32 and 1/3 minutes. Pretty impressive. It can also run a mile in 2.3 minutes. Now that's a fast cock!!! But not the last cock. Rock around the cock 'til the clock don't stop. Until the cock broke, then we changed the subject because we realized how phallic driven our imaginations were, our minds ran deep, deeper than vagina. So hit that fuckin' bowl and shut up and sit down. You're about to have the time of your life. You're about to get stoned fool. You're about to think deeper than you ever have before. Deeper than super vagina on crack laughing about nothing. The shallowness of babies assholes suddenly became glaringly obvious. So we abandoned our planet earth for the 8th dimension.
People that mess with meth get turkey garages. And nature ceases to exist without being framed and hung from telephone poles. Events turn into sloppy anarcho-orgies in oatmeal porridge breakfasts before dawn, the pawns illuminated by the rising sun. All day we poured gasoline into the gutters to counteract any beauty they might create later. They carved seashells into penis for gifts. Penises for life. For a fuller, deeper life. Full of meaning. Pregnant with meaning. The meaning of life. Things didn't end there. The meaning wasn't enough. There were so many legs, spiny, slimy legs lined in lies of nylon lighted in neon gasses gushing over grassy grease stained lives. So we threw them in a vat of bleach and they had new shiny existences that were like rainbows of love and police brutality goes down easy with dinner on the 5 o'clock evening news. Real live nudes in full color. We only had dead and clothed midgets in black and white so they wanted their money back. But we spent it on secret surveillance and wells, so we had a problem. Unless we could find a way to store our belongings underground, long term. Longer than penis. Or so that's how I described my ordeal with the transvestites. Three hours with a penis in my thong was too long. The catering was fantastic though, so not a total loss. The dross burnt away at last we were free.
He told me he could interpret my sexuality with tea leaves, with macho candy drops on the side with a pile of crackers and a bottle full of urine headed out through hamburger deserts. We were on our way to the drip. The drip-drop hip-hop handicap candy land. We hoped the sugar would dissolve our pain and leave it melted in a puddle on the floor. But we had doubts. Was pain sugar soluble? Slack back the pills and wipe your face in hand, mirror on the skin, microscope of gris. Makes me wonder if I'll ever get the dust off my boots before you cum on my face. Fragment my culture before you put me in prison. But don't forget to write me letters. I'll read them when I get a chance, or I'll fold them in my underwear or I'll stitch them into clothes, put them on a doll and hug it to me from far away to draw you back again.
Ideological cocaine cramps my esophagus as it drips down, melted neuro-plastics, stained by burning cigarette smoke which connects my hairelectrics. Don't you crave the bromoseltzer in the angle of hangover breakfast of eggs. Don't you need the vitamin supplement, seltzer soda bubbly in the tummy with your eggs, fakin' bacon, hashbrowns and spunk critters form the linguistic nuances of our mundane lives in which we choose to read ahead out of boredom or fear of losing my hemerhoids to a healthy diet. Major danger for young people; the structure of do-nothing, ask-nothing, fuck you, man, get outta here. I read ahead, I throw I-ching and gut chickens to make sure I'm paying attention always to the correct details, won't lose the itchy anus of early afternoon, bad butt hair direct the traffic of your semen and police your sexual arousal stinks like armpit, you kiddy porn downloader, you cigarette smoker, how dare you turn your skin into the internet. Because you've found pedophiles in your home, you've found them in the streets, bars, museums, cafes, parks, and aquariums. And these aquariums, floated on the sea like choppy little house boats, German fish men with goggles. Sex with the child in the child's own notion, perhaps the baby, oh jelly honey, perhapys he wants to be the little baby's sex slave, not the other way around or inside outercourse in the really scary painful sexual world influenced by satanic rituals and people you can't trust. But that's the kind of thing that's probably not going to hurt your kid.
Lola Mangles orange peels lights it up in fireballs. She glows in the late sunset with effervescent unbrushed teeth, smiling to the west, the birth place of fire and magic and magic fire, which we used to burn all of our belongings. We rubbed our bodies with the ashes as preparation for throwing ourselves onto the dominant discourse in order to prove our dedication to golden bauble promises, wrapped around our fingers. Don't unravel the roaring truth of these things. Don't unravel the plain matter mud of these things. They are as true and final as the hairs we shave in vain attempts at suppressing our simian semblance, our primate past. As capitalistic christian consumers, we are hairless from the neck down, naturally. Lola likes it ike that, but the claim of nature doesn't always fix. Her partners assume it's true, her waxing is so skilled. Slicked down with oil, smelling to high hell like rectal fluids like incense, like semen and roses, stinking of passion and God's rose scented semen, an ancient celestial delicacy worth more than your life. Drool over it, you'll never grok it wholesale, but the bits you do eat will stink up your intestines and give you heartburn in the testicle rib cage, ovarian birdcage. Burlesque blood cells, rubber in the neck of Angelic rubber angel-demons spitting on your grave.
After the sun went out they decided it would be a good idea to bathe themselves in chemicals. I mean, what else was there to do? So we packed a lunch, fed the bear and set off for the sunset, holding hands with the gays and the gypsies. Marching with a new attitude where we'd rape ourselves for the revolution. Lest the revolution rape us for ourselves. Lest we date rape our baby selves with candy. As candy is undoubtedly better than ecstasy but not as good as our haiku. Which was the only thing I ate this morning other than coffee. The breakfast of losers. It felt all right, at least the coffee went down easy, like a bomb slips through air, onto Dresden. Like a shot glass full of cum down a buttery throat. Or a stick of butter slithering down the colon of a glass clown with incredibly large breasts... but anyway they were glass so I didn't feel guilty about objectifying them. In the same way you don't feel guilty about objectifying silicone breasts and the girls and clowns who wear them. And the children and boys playing never-have-i-ever, dancing like horse pistons until finally the bushes swallowed us all.
The United States quickly turned into a police state, and there were chunks of cops everywhere. But we were able to hide underground, and be anarchists. Until one day... Everything fell apart. Nothing was OK. Even the animals knew something was up. Something bad was about to happen. Not even music sounded right. And not even their words turned left. In fact, their words didn't turn at all. Gravity kept them from floating into space. But it did not stop them from smoking endless joints and making good use of wax. Bee's wax that is. The sweetest smelling wax there is. Bees are also good for honey. I like honey, but I hate getting stung. Even though I love getting strong. One of my many paradoxes. I had many other lives too, and in one of them I owned a monkey. He had his own tree in my backyard. Someone tried to steal him once! The bastard. How dare they. Stealing is wrong and if you steal you will go to hell. Just ask Satan, where to find gold and small children.
Everyone should try to say "buttermilk" more often. I feel so great when I say that. Like the other day when I called a raccoon "buttermilk." But "buttermilk" the raccoon didn't get along very well with the other animals. He always felt so different and isolated because he didn't like butter or milk which all f the other animals loved more than anything else in the world. But the world loved this more than anything in itself. And that made EVERYTHING better for everyone. The world was like a giant love cookie sometimes. Except for all those ugly selfish people. They tried to keep all the cookies for themselves. They hoarded them in boxes. So many crazy bees in crazy boxes. Put them in the white house. Bush loves honey! Lemme tell you something... Bush may love honey, but Dick Cheney is allergic to pomegranates. We need to seriously consider the implications of this... There could be limbs lost, souls liquified, and other zombie shit. Exuberant naked creatures in your head. I like implications. That's good that you like them. Cuz that's all we got in this crazy world baby. Implications.
He thought he was just going on an average bicycle ride. The kind he went on everyday. But then suddenly a strange man appeared on the path. Suddenly the path turned into lava and fiery sock monkey-resembling lava monsters emerged. Lava paths everywhere! There were flying beluga whales screaming on fire. "The fire is only in your mind," he said. Stop struggling. Once you realize this you can learn to control it. Control is nonsense but we must learn to control it. I like good feelings. Tie my tubes tonight baby. Nah, man. I'm tired baby. How 'bout we do it tomorrow morning? After we smoke some marijuana. Hide it in your lawn gnome, he is a worthy keeper and a worthy lover. Hot lawn gnome sex on the lawn, smoking trees. But only trees because hard drugs are not conducive to hot sex. But trees are soft. Soft like hot sex. We were anti-hard cold sex, A.H.C.S for short. The other gangs were scared of us. So much public sex!
Millions of people suddenly died of heart attacks as the unbelievably grotesque mutilated giant aliens fell out of the skies on rivers of alien blood. But I survived and eventually forgot this event. I tend to survive and forget things. You see, one of my many traits. I can stand on my head in the dark. Because my pupils are dilated. And no one can see me. There are so many things I can do in the dark. This brought me back to an earlier time when I spent my days on a river swimming and looking at birds. I also ingested copious amounts of LSD. I thought I had some friends with me. When I realized I didn't, life was real dark. Darker than the darkest of chocolate. Darker than black. Jet black. But so anyhow, enough about colors. Color theory is for fags. Hetero is the new black. No longer were wild homosexual public orgies the rage. San francisco was as desolate as New Orleans after a hurricane. No more wild colorful faggotry. Times were a changin'. And changing fast. Zero to light speed in three seconds. Bam! Blaw! Fromp! Swip! Crazy shit. Crazy like a hetero-normative ideology on color television.
He pumped out poetry the way some men pump out semen. Violently and often. When ever, you name it. It's probably happening right now in your town. Tell me it isn't? I would tell you but I have no vocal chords. I sold them one day when I was fiending for some heroin. Less talking, anyway, and more fucking. That's what I always say. But what do I know? I can't stop talking even when I'm fucking. Fuck me harder oh yeah hmm I think I need to go shopping fuck me oh yeah oh my god. Then we cuddled. He cried like a baby. I made him feel like a woman. Like the most beautiful special woman in the whole wide world. Like an underage prostitute in Mumbai, like Poland circa 1942, like a female politician, you could even say like an astronaut on LSD.
We're humans on this crazy planet. But why? What is our purpose? All we do is destroy. And fuck animals too. Hella lame broski. So yeah I was like chillin' drinkin' cold borscht soup with my broskis. I had to hurry to make my flight to Bangkok. I had investments to make. Connections to make. I had an above averagely tiny penis. In highschool they called it broken chopstick. BC for short. They always laughed at me in history class. Where they tell you crazy lies. Like, "I love you," and "you are the future," and "you can do anything if you put your mind to it." Do they even know anything about love or the future or where my mind has been? These are great questions to ask yourself. Life is full of wonder, and triumphant acts of god. Did I mention humans=garbage? Listen sonny, I'm only telling you this for your own good. Do some acid, shrooms, whatever. I say yay anarchy! I say yay car mechanics in high-heels. That was a night I never want to relive.
They stayed up all night together and talked about secret things. Secret things like the nature of god and exploitation and mental illness. It was the best year of his life. He felt connected to the universe, real and also perceived. Everything was full of love. And hate. Pure hate. Rage if hate flared from the hateful demons' breath. Satan loves it when you smile. Or frown. I don't give a shit really. Emotions are nothing to me anymore. After that accident. He got really good at crocheting and basketweaving. Some people thought maybe his head injury made him "more sensitive." "Shmore shmensitive." Stupid fucking god damn cunt asswhere shit. Sorry, tourettes. It's cool, you don't have to apologize. I let people walk all over me everyday. I guess kinda like a sidewalk, but prettier and less resilient. Less rocks, and more genitals. Then I bought a gun and a lot of problems were solved. Then I bought bombs and even more problems were solved. Yay weapons! Boo humans!
First there was the big bang, then there was stuff. Then it was the year 2007 and shit is all fucked up. Now what? Now we go from here. From here to nowhere now here. Or there. Alas, what crazy shit lurks in these decrepit waters? Maybe only time can tell... Unless you're an astrologer and then time really can tell. But what;s more important is the cash. Money talks, sweet thang. It talks to me in dreams all night long. It talks to me in plain english. I can hear it in my mind. Clearer than the voice of god himself. Or you could say, clearer than god's crystal bling. Pimp daddy mac god's bling that is. Bling wanted to go back home to planet "volplankins" but his phone to call home was broken. He took his giant alien penis and made a fortune doing gay porn. But one day he did go back to his planet. For only one day. Just to piss everyone off an plant roses and then leave again. Mullets now there's a thought.
You might say things turn out the best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out. But if you said that you'd probably be wrong. Most people are wrong.Fucked up bad wrong. I hate people. Stupid pieces of shit. All over the highway. Flung out of the windows by some drunk hicks. Until they hit the highway patrol's car. Fuck! And fuck they did. They fucked all night long, those highway patrol men in their little lace panties on the highway. I'd flash them quite often. Although I'm not sure why. Maybe it made me feel good. Sort of like how Jesus makes Jesus freaks feel good. But they felt guilty later about all the feeling good. Jesus erotica. Because if you really loved Jesus you'd masturbate to his image.
The shaman had no intention to continue the debate. He quit. And started working for Satan in order to repay his debts owed to Santa. The anagram was itself satanic. (Code word: versus diabolicus). It fucked with the very alignment of his soul. He laughed through it though. And into a Siberian exile he would gladly go. Nothing could hold the shaman back now. Come urine-sleet, come gargoyle, he was ready. Amanita, sage, salts, a small fortune of very "dear" medicines. He was certain that he had left the redwoods behind him. Following windy cracks, forgiving dendrochronology in order to trick people into shaving their neuro-fro as part of a complex scheme to turn wise crones into drones. And then, out of nowhere, Hasidic robotic beetles spitting their belief juices on arid plateaus with Hasidic straws. They die when juices are spilling at Judas dirt imbedded Jesus clone; a minor Dr. Seuss inspired odyssey. I would write about it I suspected or maybe not -- not to weaken the sentiment with withering sentences. And what threadbare attachments my threadbare emotions had miraculously been stitched to near perfection by "the thread bearer." Who was that thread bearer shaman in the desert? I was the God self again. I had slain the animal self. It was irradiated by the FMDR for the... It's hard for me to remember. Just as my feet are callous so is my soul. I feel nothing. I want to talk to god or the devil. I want to pick the louse out of my proverbial neuro-fro. Soon it will be time to harvest the penicillin from the bread. Then we can hold our annual ritual of bitching about babies with scabies which inevitably leads to our diatribe concerning all manner of dampened felt scratchy infantile infections and remember the better times back in the old days, thunderstorms or when we beat kids with novelty cocks. Brown lines inside grey dissect the sky vegetables gravy with blankets made with scantrons marked to digest the information of the world intestines. The world intestines are in the vault of the belly of the world bank. "Gut track" the subversive synth-pop band from the UK; whose reputation withered when it was found that they were actually drama students from California. One such student was in league with an anarcho-capitalist art student who believed men are bread-winners by design. She made pamphlets and glamour bombed the school with them. Glamour bombing is not violent. It simply is a form of distribution. It heals ulcers with the light of information, the gender of illuminated pipe-tranced lovers of Lucifer. After enacting this glamour bombing, the students decided there's no hope for culture. In bioremediation, or the grand television hope of it. These students instinctually sought out the errant shaman, like Conan's instincts for the rightness; a radiation from the oily LSD cove of it all. Broadcast souls of uncertainty and hold contests to see which orgiasts could consume the most intactogens. You might call it debauchery, but we're just trying to revive reverie and study alchemy in Salem's lot of lofty, lo-fi, zealous laughter. Decontextualize your recorded emotions later, lay threadbare naked, lay it on the dirt without the expected. Lived redwood moments. Lay it without your usual tiered rules for needs and wants. These aren't a filibuster, no speech by extremist cults, these emotions are no shirt, no pants, in dirt. Khaki sometimes helps us undo the fake and inflate reality. We denounced religion and preserved God as a concept which we reserved for unnamed signifiers shifting in subjectivity. We proclaimed misanthropy as the new one true religion. Renounced humanity. Denied our humanity we became extraterrestrial. We acknowledged that in essence the universe is unstable, or if not, at least our knowledge of it is unstable; a concept that the existentialist would support. Sexistencialist turning dirty ally cat circus tricks slit-throat banally anally laissez-faire spilling the filthy guilty line left-handed polydactyl pterodactyl terror-wrist witch trial!
To gather my strength for the long journey ahead, I filled my canteen with the warm frothy milk, straight from the nipples of a gay shaved shit eating retarded bear. Then we went to the beach and got attacked by a huge swarm of wasps cloned with sharks, nipples couldn't have helped us. They weren't enough to sustain us on our trek through the underworld. For this, we needed much more powerful and magical objects. So we built a giant penis to block the sun. All the feminists were pissed off, they became pale and male hating psycho cunts. We cut off our cunts in order to publicly institute and sanctify our masculinity. For whatever reason, the intellectual spineless liberals thought that this was a good idea, but soon enough they discovered the truth. And they deserved birth. To be born and reborn. Into vicious cyclical feedback loops of eternal assimilation and separation. Big words soon faded away, the ocean waves crashed, some crackheads smoked some crack, that they had scored in a past life and somehow managed to bring with them into their present incarnation. They smuggled addiction across the borders of time and space. Transdimensional drug runners creating their very own new reality. Complete with cylindrical apes and foaming rivers, lava oceans, and crustacean palaces. Reality is not a dirty word.
Memorizing mars in gemini sextiles, tear off the textiles, sex on the tiled floor tilted perspectives irrespective of age, sex, location. Things started to defy gravity so they passed laws, making it illegal to float over the white house. Always more laws, bullshit laws, and population control. Who needs people anyway? Might as well kill us all off. The only good human is a fuckin' dead one. Fuck humankind, fuck humanity! Kindly with insanity, and sobriety because consent can't be given while drunk or high on sky cock flying in time eternity. But the high didn't last long, and soon the sky cock became dangerous land cock. It flopped around like a fish out of water, many people saw this land cock. But besides all the fame of land cock, land cock had other qualities. Land cock could hold its breath for 32 and 1/3 minutes. Pretty impressive. It can also run a mile in 2.3 minutes. Now that's a fast cock!!! But not the last cock. Rock around the cock 'til the clock don't stop. Until the cock broke, then we changed the subject because we realized how phallic driven our imaginations were, our minds ran deep, deeper than vagina. So hit that fuckin' bowl and shut up and sit down. You're about to have the time of your life. You're about to get stoned fool. You're about to think deeper than you ever have before. Deeper than super vagina on crack laughing about nothing. The shallowness of babies assholes suddenly became glaringly obvious. So we abandoned our planet earth for the 8th dimension.
People that mess with meth get turkey garages. And nature ceases to exist without being framed and hung from telephone poles. Events turn into sloppy anarcho-orgies in oatmeal porridge breakfasts before dawn, the pawns illuminated by the rising sun. All day we poured gasoline into the gutters to counteract any beauty they might create later. They carved seashells into penis for gifts. Penises for life. For a fuller, deeper life. Full of meaning. Pregnant with meaning. The meaning of life. Things didn't end there. The meaning wasn't enough. There were so many legs, spiny, slimy legs lined in lies of nylon lighted in neon gasses gushing over grassy grease stained lives. So we threw them in a vat of bleach and they had new shiny existences that were like rainbows of love and police brutality goes down easy with dinner on the 5 o'clock evening news. Real live nudes in full color. We only had dead and clothed midgets in black and white so they wanted their money back. But we spent it on secret surveillance and wells, so we had a problem. Unless we could find a way to store our belongings underground, long term. Longer than penis. Or so that's how I described my ordeal with the transvestites. Three hours with a penis in my thong was too long. The catering was fantastic though, so not a total loss. The dross burnt away at last we were free.
He told me he could interpret my sexuality with tea leaves, with macho candy drops on the side with a pile of crackers and a bottle full of urine headed out through hamburger deserts. We were on our way to the drip. The drip-drop hip-hop handicap candy land. We hoped the sugar would dissolve our pain and leave it melted in a puddle on the floor. But we had doubts. Was pain sugar soluble? Slack back the pills and wipe your face in hand, mirror on the skin, microscope of gris. Makes me wonder if I'll ever get the dust off my boots before you cum on my face. Fragment my culture before you put me in prison. But don't forget to write me letters. I'll read them when I get a chance, or I'll fold them in my underwear or I'll stitch them into clothes, put them on a doll and hug it to me from far away to draw you back again.
Ideological cocaine cramps my esophagus as it drips down, melted neuro-plastics, stained by burning cigarette smoke which connects my hairelectrics. Don't you crave the bromoseltzer in the angle of hangover breakfast of eggs. Don't you need the vitamin supplement, seltzer soda bubbly in the tummy with your eggs, fakin' bacon, hashbrowns and spunk critters form the linguistic nuances of our mundane lives in which we choose to read ahead out of boredom or fear of losing my hemerhoids to a healthy diet. Major danger for young people; the structure of do-nothing, ask-nothing, fuck you, man, get outta here. I read ahead, I throw I-ching and gut chickens to make sure I'm paying attention always to the correct details, won't lose the itchy anus of early afternoon, bad butt hair direct the traffic of your semen and police your sexual arousal stinks like armpit, you kiddy porn downloader, you cigarette smoker, how dare you turn your skin into the internet. Because you've found pedophiles in your home, you've found them in the streets, bars, museums, cafes, parks, and aquariums. And these aquariums, floated on the sea like choppy little house boats, German fish men with goggles. Sex with the child in the child's own notion, perhaps the baby, oh jelly honey, perhapys he wants to be the little baby's sex slave, not the other way around or inside outercourse in the really scary painful sexual world influenced by satanic rituals and people you can't trust. But that's the kind of thing that's probably not going to hurt your kid.
Lola Mangles orange peels lights it up in fireballs. She glows in the late sunset with effervescent unbrushed teeth, smiling to the west, the birth place of fire and magic and magic fire, which we used to burn all of our belongings. We rubbed our bodies with the ashes as preparation for throwing ourselves onto the dominant discourse in order to prove our dedication to golden bauble promises, wrapped around our fingers. Don't unravel the roaring truth of these things. Don't unravel the plain matter mud of these things. They are as true and final as the hairs we shave in vain attempts at suppressing our simian semblance, our primate past. As capitalistic christian consumers, we are hairless from the neck down, naturally. Lola likes it ike that, but the claim of nature doesn't always fix. Her partners assume it's true, her waxing is so skilled. Slicked down with oil, smelling to high hell like rectal fluids like incense, like semen and roses, stinking of passion and God's rose scented semen, an ancient celestial delicacy worth more than your life. Drool over it, you'll never grok it wholesale, but the bits you do eat will stink up your intestines and give you heartburn in the testicle rib cage, ovarian birdcage. Burlesque blood cells, rubber in the neck of Angelic rubber angel-demons spitting on your grave.
After the sun went out they decided it would be a good idea to bathe themselves in chemicals. I mean, what else was there to do? So we packed a lunch, fed the bear and set off for the sunset, holding hands with the gays and the gypsies. Marching with a new attitude where we'd rape ourselves for the revolution. Lest the revolution rape us for ourselves. Lest we date rape our baby selves with candy. As candy is undoubtedly better than ecstasy but not as good as our haiku. Which was the only thing I ate this morning other than coffee. The breakfast of losers. It felt all right, at least the coffee went down easy, like a bomb slips through air, onto Dresden. Like a shot glass full of cum down a buttery throat. Or a stick of butter slithering down the colon of a glass clown with incredibly large breasts... but anyway they were glass so I didn't feel guilty about objectifying them. In the same way you don't feel guilty about objectifying silicone breasts and the girls and clowns who wear them. And the children and boys playing never-have-i-ever, dancing like horse pistons until finally the bushes swallowed us all.
The United States quickly turned into a police state, and there were chunks of cops everywhere. But we were able to hide underground, and be anarchists. Until one day... Everything fell apart. Nothing was OK. Even the animals knew something was up. Something bad was about to happen. Not even music sounded right. And not even their words turned left. In fact, their words didn't turn at all. Gravity kept them from floating into space. But it did not stop them from smoking endless joints and making good use of wax. Bee's wax that is. The sweetest smelling wax there is. Bees are also good for honey. I like honey, but I hate getting stung. Even though I love getting strong. One of my many paradoxes. I had many other lives too, and in one of them I owned a monkey. He had his own tree in my backyard. Someone tried to steal him once! The bastard. How dare they. Stealing is wrong and if you steal you will go to hell. Just ask Satan, where to find gold and small children.
Everyone should try to say "buttermilk" more often. I feel so great when I say that. Like the other day when I called a raccoon "buttermilk." But "buttermilk" the raccoon didn't get along very well with the other animals. He always felt so different and isolated because he didn't like butter or milk which all f the other animals loved more than anything else in the world. But the world loved this more than anything in itself. And that made EVERYTHING better for everyone. The world was like a giant love cookie sometimes. Except for all those ugly selfish people. They tried to keep all the cookies for themselves. They hoarded them in boxes. So many crazy bees in crazy boxes. Put them in the white house. Bush loves honey! Lemme tell you something... Bush may love honey, but Dick Cheney is allergic to pomegranates. We need to seriously consider the implications of this... There could be limbs lost, souls liquified, and other zombie shit. Exuberant naked creatures in your head. I like implications. That's good that you like them. Cuz that's all we got in this crazy world baby. Implications.
He thought he was just going on an average bicycle ride. The kind he went on everyday. But then suddenly a strange man appeared on the path. Suddenly the path turned into lava and fiery sock monkey-resembling lava monsters emerged. Lava paths everywhere! There were flying beluga whales screaming on fire. "The fire is only in your mind," he said. Stop struggling. Once you realize this you can learn to control it. Control is nonsense but we must learn to control it. I like good feelings. Tie my tubes tonight baby. Nah, man. I'm tired baby. How 'bout we do it tomorrow morning? After we smoke some marijuana. Hide it in your lawn gnome, he is a worthy keeper and a worthy lover. Hot lawn gnome sex on the lawn, smoking trees. But only trees because hard drugs are not conducive to hot sex. But trees are soft. Soft like hot sex. We were anti-hard cold sex, A.H.C.S for short. The other gangs were scared of us. So much public sex!
Millions of people suddenly died of heart attacks as the unbelievably grotesque mutilated giant aliens fell out of the skies on rivers of alien blood. But I survived and eventually forgot this event. I tend to survive and forget things. You see, one of my many traits. I can stand on my head in the dark. Because my pupils are dilated. And no one can see me. There are so many things I can do in the dark. This brought me back to an earlier time when I spent my days on a river swimming and looking at birds. I also ingested copious amounts of LSD. I thought I had some friends with me. When I realized I didn't, life was real dark. Darker than the darkest of chocolate. Darker than black. Jet black. But so anyhow, enough about colors. Color theory is for fags. Hetero is the new black. No longer were wild homosexual public orgies the rage. San francisco was as desolate as New Orleans after a hurricane. No more wild colorful faggotry. Times were a changin'. And changing fast. Zero to light speed in three seconds. Bam! Blaw! Fromp! Swip! Crazy shit. Crazy like a hetero-normative ideology on color television.
He pumped out poetry the way some men pump out semen. Violently and often. When ever, you name it. It's probably happening right now in your town. Tell me it isn't? I would tell you but I have no vocal chords. I sold them one day when I was fiending for some heroin. Less talking, anyway, and more fucking. That's what I always say. But what do I know? I can't stop talking even when I'm fucking. Fuck me harder oh yeah hmm I think I need to go shopping fuck me oh yeah oh my god. Then we cuddled. He cried like a baby. I made him feel like a woman. Like the most beautiful special woman in the whole wide world. Like an underage prostitute in Mumbai, like Poland circa 1942, like a female politician, you could even say like an astronaut on LSD.
We're humans on this crazy planet. But why? What is our purpose? All we do is destroy. And fuck animals too. Hella lame broski. So yeah I was like chillin' drinkin' cold borscht soup with my broskis. I had to hurry to make my flight to Bangkok. I had investments to make. Connections to make. I had an above averagely tiny penis. In highschool they called it broken chopstick. BC for short. They always laughed at me in history class. Where they tell you crazy lies. Like, "I love you," and "you are the future," and "you can do anything if you put your mind to it." Do they even know anything about love or the future or where my mind has been? These are great questions to ask yourself. Life is full of wonder, and triumphant acts of god. Did I mention humans=garbage? Listen sonny, I'm only telling you this for your own good. Do some acid, shrooms, whatever. I say yay anarchy! I say yay car mechanics in high-heels. That was a night I never want to relive.
They stayed up all night together and talked about secret things. Secret things like the nature of god and exploitation and mental illness. It was the best year of his life. He felt connected to the universe, real and also perceived. Everything was full of love. And hate. Pure hate. Rage if hate flared from the hateful demons' breath. Satan loves it when you smile. Or frown. I don't give a shit really. Emotions are nothing to me anymore. After that accident. He got really good at crocheting and basketweaving. Some people thought maybe his head injury made him "more sensitive." "Shmore shmensitive." Stupid fucking god damn cunt asswhere shit. Sorry, tourettes. It's cool, you don't have to apologize. I let people walk all over me everyday. I guess kinda like a sidewalk, but prettier and less resilient. Less rocks, and more genitals. Then I bought a gun and a lot of problems were solved. Then I bought bombs and even more problems were solved. Yay weapons! Boo humans!
First there was the big bang, then there was stuff. Then it was the year 2007 and shit is all fucked up. Now what? Now we go from here. From here to nowhere now here. Or there. Alas, what crazy shit lurks in these decrepit waters? Maybe only time can tell... Unless you're an astrologer and then time really can tell. But what;s more important is the cash. Money talks, sweet thang. It talks to me in dreams all night long. It talks to me in plain english. I can hear it in my mind. Clearer than the voice of god himself. Or you could say, clearer than god's crystal bling. Pimp daddy mac god's bling that is. Bling wanted to go back home to planet "volplankins" but his phone to call home was broken. He took his giant alien penis and made a fortune doing gay porn. But one day he did go back to his planet. For only one day. Just to piss everyone off an plant roses and then leave again. Mullets now there's a thought.
You might say things turn out the best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out. But if you said that you'd probably be wrong. Most people are wrong.Fucked up bad wrong. I hate people. Stupid pieces of shit. All over the highway. Flung out of the windows by some drunk hicks. Until they hit the highway patrol's car. Fuck! And fuck they did. They fucked all night long, those highway patrol men in their little lace panties on the highway. I'd flash them quite often. Although I'm not sure why. Maybe it made me feel good. Sort of like how Jesus makes Jesus freaks feel good. But they felt guilty later about all the feeling good. Jesus erotica. Because if you really loved Jesus you'd masturbate to his image.
The shaman had no intention to continue the debate. He quit. And started working for Satan in order to repay his debts owed to Santa. The anagram was itself satanic. (Code word: versus diabolicus). It fucked with the very alignment of his soul. He laughed through it though. And into a Siberian exile he would gladly go. Nothing could hold the shaman back now. Come urine-sleet, come gargoyle, he was ready. Amanita, sage, salts, a small fortune of very "dear" medicines. He was certain that he had left the redwoods behind him. Following windy cracks, forgiving dendrochronology in order to trick people into shaving their neuro-fro as part of a complex scheme to turn wise crones into drones. And then, out of nowhere, Hasidic robotic beetles spitting their belief juices on arid plateaus with Hasidic straws. They die when juices are spilling at Judas dirt imbedded Jesus clone; a minor Dr. Seuss inspired odyssey. I would write about it I suspected or maybe not -- not to weaken the sentiment with withering sentences. And what threadbare attachments my threadbare emotions had miraculously been stitched to near perfection by "the thread bearer." Who was that thread bearer shaman in the desert? I was the God self again. I had slain the animal self. It was irradiated by the FMDR for the... It's hard for me to remember. Just as my feet are callous so is my soul. I feel nothing. I want to talk to god or the devil. I want to pick the louse out of my proverbial neuro-fro. Soon it will be time to harvest the penicillin from the bread. Then we can hold our annual ritual of bitching about babies with scabies which inevitably leads to our diatribe concerning all manner of dampened felt scratchy infantile infections and remember the better times back in the old days, thunderstorms or when we beat kids with novelty cocks. Brown lines inside grey dissect the sky vegetables gravy with blankets made with scantrons marked to digest the information of the world intestines. The world intestines are in the vault of the belly of the world bank. "Gut track" the subversive synth-pop band from the UK; whose reputation withered when it was found that they were actually drama students from California. One such student was in league with an anarcho-capitalist art student who believed men are bread-winners by design. She made pamphlets and glamour bombed the school with them. Glamour bombing is not violent. It simply is a form of distribution. It heals ulcers with the light of information, the gender of illuminated pipe-tranced lovers of Lucifer. After enacting this glamour bombing, the students decided there's no hope for culture. In bioremediation, or the grand television hope of it. These students instinctually sought out the errant shaman, like Conan's instincts for the rightness; a radiation from the oily LSD cove of it all. Broadcast souls of uncertainty and hold contests to see which orgiasts could consume the most intactogens. You might call it debauchery, but we're just trying to revive reverie and study alchemy in Salem's lot of lofty, lo-fi, zealous laughter. Decontextualize your recorded emotions later, lay threadbare naked, lay it on the dirt without the expected. Lived redwood moments. Lay it without your usual tiered rules for needs and wants. These aren't a filibuster, no speech by extremist cults, these emotions are no shirt, no pants, in dirt. Khaki sometimes helps us undo the fake and inflate reality. We denounced religion and preserved God as a concept which we reserved for unnamed signifiers shifting in subjectivity. We proclaimed misanthropy as the new one true religion. Renounced humanity. Denied our humanity we became extraterrestrial. We acknowledged that in essence the universe is unstable, or if not, at least our knowledge of it is unstable; a concept that the existentialist would support. Sexistencialist turning dirty ally cat circus tricks slit-throat banally anally laissez-faire spilling the filthy guilty line left-handed polydactyl pterodactyl terror-wrist witch trial!