Skype has blown up the book discussion club.
A coconut has fallen on our collective yellow toenail.
I am still bragging about owning two copies of the tropics;
certain circuits of the sock and underpants blizzard
in my white suitcase are straying and regrouping to form
their own society of blue tribespeople. They think of
their new home with pride: i.e. 'Monkeys in the Time
Our technology is just a way for invisible knots to
measure the fancy shortcuts in their hugs. Laypeople should stay OUT
with stupid questions such as: 'DIY, how did you become
involved in prostitution?' A cynical worm only wants to see
the world for its leaking ceiling - the less boisterous,
pompous side of the asshole toupee.
Scratch, cynical being – scratch where it's faded.
Says I raising my arm and dangling it limply in front of everyone:
'Intellectual tassels are so fucking helpless!' Digital Time and the
beautiful bashful segments of its sarcasm. Mind-paralysis
responding Dexter-like to your ugly unpractical custom kitchen.
Murmurs in the living room. 'Hey babe.' [Midwest Beavis - cardboard cargo pants
and Ruben Goldberg fuck-off luggage – what is not to love?]
Vlogging the evening's boogers,
who also eat their young,
the candy reanimated by pure evil.
The hatchet so far has been a huge shocker.
Tonight, I am not going to be the one who begs
sympathy for the stranded souls of Smallville.