In Woolworths, I lug stuff around until I get used to it.
Death rests on a slope. Basically I long for it.
I seek some sort of reprieve from lugging things around.
And it seeks some sort of reprieve from wiggling.
That is something death does, by the way (i.e. wiggle) – that's a
sign it is alive, like breathing, like a beating heart.
Daylight completely reverses, to the folks inside the spaceship,
so fucking fast the spaceship moves.
In space, space is a very cold spot.
On Tatooine, creatures are varied as fuck.
Death is bored and restless and basically wiggles.
The monster is bored and basically needs to be pressed
down firmly under the child's bed if it is to ever stay put.
Everything in my childhood bedroom was poorly held by a string,
which accounts for my vague memories of childhood.
To Dracula, 'chicken nuggets' is just a phrase.
It's still sometimes difficult to use it as a villain's one-liner,
and sometimes it sounds too shrill.
Proffering that feeling in the brain tantamount to the
feeling proffered by brushing one's teeth.
When something is infected, the part that's infected starts snapping.
As in viciously.
A chicken nugget to Dracula looks like a puppy covered in a film.
All my membership cards and credit cards are laminated.
Cocaine has not been kind to their edges' natural color.
Shaving his pacemaker gives it a wet green external look, Jaba finds.
Its ringtone heralds the end times and has been memed to shit
on the internet where it has also corroded into a stark black grid.
At any given moment on Tatooine, a bulging assortment of creatures
are pushing and pulling at a fussball table.
My iron lung is my personal material.
My iron lung is good people.
It's its disguise (i.e. the film that covers the puppy is the puppy's disguise).
After passing through the solipsistic lens of a psychopathic slasher,
the arc of the celebrity sex tape slakes its rot on our very cosmos,
which is cryonically pressed down on anything that
fits its form, which basically nothing does. Everything dies.