Monday, April 16, 2012


This is a flaw. Touch it. It won't bite you if you're
human. Rollerblades are the brainchild of a horse.
Fucking horse. The complex transportation system
of one whole alien civilization has been
permanently handicapped and undermined and taken over
by wheeled tripods. At least, unlike traditional rollerblades, they don't
seize up in the wash and/or swallow your damp underwear.
The poor are the only ones who can't afford them since they're
too poor to buy gear that's expensive. The poor
have to hop to wherever they want to go.

Calling down atomic slime onto countless
office desks across the nation, the desperate prayers
of office workers replace the natural process of photosynthesis
in office plants. Sometimes wreaking havoc on the
common computer keyboard. But what the hell?
A cloud crab-walks across the glass hothouse boxer shorts
that house your weathered brain cock; the latter finds itself
groping its way through the rubber branches of a new,
waxy pubic constellation. So much for our prayers.

This is a chameleon. I invite you to touch it. It would
turn the color of your finger. See, it was ostracized
by its support group because the crayons
the group leader instructed the group to draw
dinosaurs and other daily traumas with broke when
the chameleon's incomprehensible fractals
dutifully set about mimicking the crayons' skin.
Our little buddy viciously killed the crayons, in fact.
In fact, I shouldn't really be asking you to touch it.

Jesus, is everything subject to deterioration and decay?

My mom told me that we inhabit some sort of weird,
brutal sitcom substratum. My mom was incredibly antisocial,
and embarrassed me in supermarkets. And she called ME
a flaw? A fuck-up? Hehehe, I forgot the only valuable lesson
she ever taught me. It was a good one. If I remember correctly,
it was pretty fucking good. But I don't remember correctly.
I find it sort of humorous in itself that I don't remember it anymore.
How about you?

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