Sunday, August 26, 2012


I made you a mix tape. I was the axe murderer at the
open house who was talking too much; we briefly exchanged
glances. I was still preparing to be blown away by a miracle,
like the last time at that yard sale. Now I've resorted to
making mix tapes. Baby, to enjoy my mix tape you have
to use a cushion. And it requires sitting on your cushion and
staring. While absorbing the mix tape, stare. Copy its contents onto
your contents, softly: a feather recessed into the rough outline
of a dinosaur, looking into the middle distance. Before all the
blood cells are allowed to become willowy, the panorama's
undercurrent must first be slathered on with a stick. Diarrhea
separates from the burgeoning self-portrait, before landing back
in it again. A dishwasher's suction conceals as much as possible
what lies before it, like a monger of nothing. The latter ability is
important for enjoying my mix tape, though it steals from
the ability to talk normally. You can only talk when thumped
on the back with a palm. Those very distorted images behind
a leotard. A water balloon effecting the joy of a tiny muscle.
It shows how close we are, baby. How tight. Your smoothie,
with its look of PVC. My pivotal silicon, with its look of a
wrapper in that shirt. A Mexican wrestler. Who will
let themselves be as easily popped out of their holding joint?
An existential coffee mug mined until saturated, a giant head
boiling. Lay's Potato Chips crunched down to melting between
the thumbs of a demon wanking its hand flush with bile,
very bouncily.

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