Sunday, July 24, 2011


Subsequent to acting very surprised – let's say you
were actually very, very surprised – you may burp up a
little bolus into your palms. A symbolically pregnant malformation
of a breath. Then, it suddenly becomes clear that
every emotional response of the radio specter outside your window
is assisted by dark matter unfurling – a sort of tongue leaching into
the galaxy's wheelbarrow. Like a pap smear.
Your deathbed's antennae will lilt – and we might as well
have communicated with God using bedposts – your infatuation
with astronomical household objects will find a foothold
via a new type of sonar: a connect-the-numbers drawing of
a scary sex toy. But petals have built an oil drum
around your body. The woozy-looking bug on your sleeve has promised
that self-degradation would stop masquerading as suicide.

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