Sunday, June 12, 2011

BRAINSCAN KICKING UP MIST

I knew from personal experience that the kamikaze sexual position was basically a death wish's crunchy protein, on Broadway. On a board game, the splash of a hotel when you leave all the doors open. I thought I loved you taped, weasel – and stuffed, I dialed aquatic and now can't sleep. T-Rex Transformer cranking personal goods from kiosk to talent show, to the janitor in the audience its voyeuristic quality seeming multilayered. Graveyard mothballs strung on high-school poetry. A calculating food truck with a cadaver at the interface controller, like ET's phone booth a gauzy brain scan pressing buttons in order to talk to yourself.

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