Tuesday, January 4, 2011

TO BE SUNG ONLY IN B-MINOR

what makes the supernova’s biggest weakness so remarkable?
it cannot shoot well, with this weakness, so in that sense, like a brass bazooka, it looks good only on a cabin wall
that area’s polite synapse

too grand can be too dirty, like plastic masks on children, salad catheters, mutilation poker, or sexed-up hepatitis, and really it’s not meant for tupperware, or perhaps it is
as small a utility as bumper stickers that demoralize and effectively drive the driver of the car behind to suicide with prissy statements like YOU SUCK

it struck me while sitting on my rustic porch one day, listening to the birds, the absence of cars, some corn boiling on the gas stove, what a fine, flat line forms when you synchronize two different kinds of buzzing
hiss bubble hiss bubble hiss: what a priceless relationship!

richard branson’s nazi porn aims to accomplish just that, in a sense
at the hot resort
interrupting a bar mitzvah
then moving the show to thailand
there interrupting a perfectly droll episode of lost
in a stroke of sheer marketing genius, the scoundrel accused his mother of plotting a smear campaign against him with a personal robot that craftily pulled info on her son’s intimate bathroom rituals
the counterplot – i.e. the bitchy whining and fussing he kicked up – according to forbes increased his net worth tenfold 

i’d like to say upfront and with the straightest face musterable that the best place to hide is in a shrink-wrap aircraft carrier: don’t get caught in the arid desert outside it
ask the affluent
they’re always in the wrong place at the wrong time

at the heart of every deductive power, there’s a little desk at which sits an embonpoint girl with a ledger
every subtraction she makes from the deductive power she adds to the sherlock holmes fund for emotional well-being
really, young lady?
will an emotive Sherlock, one that issues great blasts of raw, lachrymal emotion at the sight of every suspiciously laid glove, riffled bedsheet, unaccounted-for dust mote, too-neat boudoir – not to mention every suspiciously grisly and unnecessarily gut-strewn murder scene – really be helpful to the case?

there no longer is any pleasure in wagging one’s finger at personal robot slaves

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