Who
can fuck up any honest depiction of a pretty girl
picking
bones from a hot cooked fish with her fingers?
For
instance the squelch you're hearing – is it actually from
the
wooden propeller that's manifested itself in your awareness?
I
smoke too much pot to be able to distinguish between the
squelch
made by the palms of those gathered at the scene
of
some crime or by a farm tractor given an industrial emetic.
For
scientific purposes, Mothman lets his dust devolve into
mere
mounds. And with me, the doctors almost sewed on
a
complete different tail because my parents almost didn't pick
my
tail because it was the runt of the litter.
Stage
magicians replicate these events all the time, and at the end
reverse-shunt
modeling glue through their invention.
Dark
and evil forces almost bullied me out of having this
tail,
now.
But I
am not sufficiently thankful: I still wish I could form myself
into a
monocle hovering above a flea's gaping butthole.
Endlessly,
I know, that image would nurse a propensity for spitting
right
through me. The
damburst's vectors align and flies fumble in
the
dark trying to find the hole – trying to nudge the gangrene
more
dated. Suffusion as trademark aesthetic of a fungus. Rubber as
adaptation
to alienation. Don't magneto up close. Ebola is not irresistible.
The
truth is, the wholesome, excitable electromagnetism in
pawn
shops lets a part of you paddle around, systematically.
You'd
be surprised at the least convenient thing Julio Iglesias
ever
mounted – that which doesn't fail to manifest is, he'd found,
as
mantis-chested as daylight.
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