Tuesday, April 24, 2012


The snack wakes up on the table. There is no plate beneath it.
The table cloth is recumbent, asleep still. The snack blends into bits of it.
Why does it feel so uncomfortable resurrecting?
Exiting from a vending machine feels like jugular buggering if you exit straight into someone's waiting open mouth. It almost happened, once.
I think the local plantation, at stem or perhaps root level, feels itself part of some sort of planetary groceries system. It is complacent, though. I would be scared.
The queue bent itself labyrinthine with need and haste, and couldn't find itself, got lost in itself, looked foolish. The donor's kidney was just a lump of detailed fat in the precise center of her body. Moreover, it was infected with a computer virus.
Barbra Streissand lyrics played backwards speak of children's kites that have flown so high and are now deteriorating in space like rotten bat wings.
Played forward they speak of a green scum, a murky fish eye, creeping across the ceiling of a sex shop seeming at once far and very near. Seeing common objects impales it, seeing dildos stimulates solar eclipses.
The couple was vulnerable to the real estate agent's fungal cologne. They would catch a cold every day in the apartment starting the moment the agent moved out of view, but never truly away.
Curious radiation at TSA checkpoints makes Ewoks look like cockroaches in excessive bling. Direct the tiles of your identity back into the correct squares after passing through, please.
In philosophy classes, they keep score – glaucus halogen numbers appearing on the blackboard with the names of students corresponding with the numbers. For centuries philosophy departments depended on this horrible system, and it curiously hasn't hurt anyone.
Neither has always talking to myself while spring cleaning. Though it's lead to my thoughts usually being completely scrambled once I stopped talking to myself.

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