Friday, January 28, 2011


her favorite existence is the existence of the hectic colorful plaza’s Suicide Bug
death mixed with the atmospheric red of being rushed to the hospital
very loud and busy – the screech of a box cutter ricocheting gaudily through an empty warehouse

there are many forces behind the novelty catapult I’ve bought and placed around street corners to pummel unsuspecting victims with blunt splatty objects
Jane still wouldn’t catalogue them as carefully and lovingly as those that backed the creation of Edison’s waffle maker – which to this day tend to stick around, and are loud, they hair-raisingly convey the static yowling you sometimes hear along cold droopy East European telephone wires  

when Jane and I are out killing and raping and robbing, we at least agree on the concepts of:
a victim’s endurance measured according to the black yellow zigzagged timeline of a honeybee
souvenirs made of – and by – long dirty nails as reminders of death
ice-cream sticks as tongue depressors = beasts stranger, and more humiliating, than the motorized battering rams that traumatize the backs of heads

“your grandfather has been right all along about softcore,” Jane, perched like a gargoyle on an old stressed phone box on a wet dark quiet street – her slitty eyes scanning left and right – says

look closely at any type of numbness; does it care if God goes on vacation every once in a while?
does it mourn the fact that if sunspots could talk, they’d sound like Ed Hardy t-shirts?

the frightful possibility of not caring if actors and actresses are basically apathetic to the basic innate human need for more slime and gore – the death of the human spirit is NOT more orange wigs and plaited underarm hair;

the death of the human spirit is not the walking lysergic
the death of the human spirit is not the unstable holographic
the death of the human spirit are NOT the secret messages that crawl out of the snow on a continual basis...

messages that say: “choose your own goat”
messages that say: “what’s to prevent you from simply going into and spraying lewd messages on the walls of your own bathroom?”
messages that say: “what’s to prevent you from simply going in and decently using the clean wonderful restrooms of the Hive?”

messages that sometimes slightly contradict themselves

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