Tuesday, February 22, 2011

DUST UNDER MY SKIN

Far too much male and female chest. Kiss of death for silly song. Dead insect slo-mo ray. They brought pathetic burglars with them to the Apollo Moon Landing, to steal their evidence and replace them with Rorschach underarm prints. The incompetence we daily celebrate on the toilet. Their pleasure pop-up Bistro. Boot dust tattoo. A tantrum is a more complex skin tingle. Like how monsters start their day off: Complaints about lithium’s too many edges and imbalances that are beautiful. Gunslinger interrupted by bean flashes (bright bean-shaped ephemera) always in more complex commercials. Clicks heels together and curses foully. Unknown when he speaks, endowed with diverse strengths, and a romping Id, when he sleeps or when his mouth – also in sleep – is full of the horrible shit of turtles. ‘Also I am betraying you,’ a character in our dreams always says. Extraterrestrials love our KGB. Is there anything in their piss, other than congenial electrolytic properties by which to convey the darkness of the present day? Cognitive slipping. A conspiracy squirming on the anvil of my hearing apparatus. Ingest froglike.

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