Saturday, December 25, 2010


You’re in a crawlspace, not moving, not really living, bench-pressing claustrophobia, doing squats with gloomy impatience in your trousers. You’re training for the 2089 Olympics. We’re part of a groovy little band of sex stereotypes. We’re trying to prevail against an army of permanent markers. Society no longer considers it polite to pigeonhole us with sharp, glowing instruments. I used to like drawing peanuts. I used an average brand of steak knife to tattoo them on my food. Truffle infusion stabbing. That fast, yellow, rising mist. My favorite drink? Finger bone.

These winter warmers have been made in China. Should’ve worn my meditation swag, to prevent getting worked up over the inferior wiper fluid I’d been sold to clean and reuse pizza boxes. The famous Malva pudding tracker is speaking slowly, his voice thick and slimy with satisfaction. He is perversely successful and talented, half bushman, a quarter dog, a quarter metal detector. Shakespeare promotes porn and video games with the allegorical language he’d picked up from the latrine. Allergies are a sensible precaution against altruism. It turns out masochism is actually illegal. No one had known that.

It’s sad being stuck here. We all basically got what we came for. One guy’s searches rewarded him with the ghost of petroleum. It is beautiful and seems to have a fondness for human hands. A woman is playing the weightless clavier. Certain supernatural musical organs work a lot like the lids of stainless steel pots. They feed off gravity if the correct buttons are pressed. The notes they belch out are in themselves not weightless (for that is a logical impossibility), but CONSIST of weightlessness. A fog machine would now be great for boosting the morale, if not simply for that epic effect. It might also usefully blur the vile glint in the eye of what’s indisputably a French maid ogling the horizon of the countertop growing larger. But we haven’t moved an inch yet.

It seems the very molecules that make up this line are on their way to becoming quite turbid. I’d love for us to run on air, would’ve wanted to see us as a bunch of angry shopping bags curiously holding ourselves back. Out of decency. Jamie Oliver says he likes rubbing nutmeg into his G-spot. We will have to listen for the next twelve hours how the policies of its dominion over the rest of his nervous system, and even speech processors, have been grafted over the years. In double queues, the other line always moves faster.

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