Wednesday, July 25, 2012

COTTONMOUTH (SPACE, PART II)


A gingerbread man zoomed past every half an hour on the
conveyor belt. The last one had sodomized the adjoining
10 yards of nothingness with slow urethral steam. Space/nothingness
replied: from the serrated trunks of black speech bubbles,
quasi-verbally, bulbs leaked. Space should rather be on board
a space station. There, there is real cottonmouth, for space
holds on to any hair and small particles. There one has absolute
control over scratching one's own ass. In space, farts become opium.
There, there is enjoyment of resistance to erosion. McDonald's loosens
surplus promotional material from formica. One limbo per egress.
Craw, instead of something wearable. Medical center chic.
The impersonal unopposed to the personal.

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