Hey, don’t you think
your place is a little bit
cursed?
The walls warp when
you walk alongside
them and malice wheezes
out from every dark little
corner.
Don’t you think it’s got
something to do
with the fact that every
carpet at your pad
is SmartEmbossed™ with a personalized
ad?
Your feet are creepily
followed by screws twisting
out of the floorboards
even when you pad around softly
on podalic SteamSponge® – each carpet lifts a
little and the dust putters
out of the sides, like
Lazarus sitting upright and coughing;
but these SmartEmbossed™ rugs
are the non-verbal equivalent
of a modern face nailed to
an incredible outfit, and you’ll
develop a dust-allergy one day
that’ll cause you to lose
touch with the ground beneath
your feet.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Rise And Fall Of Pierce Monae
This is the tired account of how Pierce Monae, a bioengineer, tossed
pea bombs at ninja waiters in theme diners.
I said that the account was tired but I didn’t warn about how
it would instantly become quite lugubrious when it detailed Pierce
using bird turd iPhone apps to crap on correspondences he didn’t like.
In the account, we experience a little hiccup of sprightliness – at the point
where the bioengineer places 3-D laser-sintered snotballs
on his girlfriends’ headboards. Oh! God knows we could use the levity.
We will see the man literally transform, and the first hints appear,
strangely, when he surgically attaches bioplastic breastplates
that protect him against the detrimental faux pas of gargling sugar-laced
bacterial mouthwash too loud in the bathrooms of geoengineering
facilities – a testimony, if ever there was one, to the character-molding
influences of friends.
Flippantly, and in a sense mockingly – for every kind act in Pierce’s
skimpy repertory of kind acts carries a faint whiff of mockery, of
condescension – Pierce stars in the account as a man who’d ‘benevolently’
deign to necromancing his neighbor’s hamster out of a
chaos of wet sloppy noodles on the mantelpiece. Ptuh!
Of course the account has so far been nothing but tired, even during
the exciting moments. Even when our subject swills beer containing
nanotechnology that washes his ass and scrubs his armpits and combs
his hair and sweetens his breath – and we can feel ourselves begin
to yawn rudely (if you’re reading/hearing this in the company of
colleagues or loved ones) when Pierce, at night, before bed,
drapes himself in a large mountain insulator, the very same cowl of
mirroring Doritos Tibetans have recently begun to find useful in hiding
crops, llamas and ancient crowdsourcing techniques from the Chinese.
Here, now, is Pierce at his vainest: yawn-inducingly, the account has
Pierce molding his name (i.e. Pierce Monae) in silicon letters
based on Palatino serif, and some of you may next fall into a deep stupor
when he publishes an epic poem about his internal organs
‘plateauing’ in a fashion horribly literal and unaesthetic.
Can there be a distinction between his organs making art and
their acting up in medical terms horribly technical?
Doesn’t matter. This is all such boring shit, I don’t believe any
of you would even be around to witness Pierce marking his own downfall
by stuffing electrodes into his pierced, perforated belly (weird pun here
which the account lazily – tiredly? – fails to account for) in an attempt
to remedy the situation but in consequence turning into a baked potato.
pea bombs at ninja waiters in theme diners.
I said that the account was tired but I didn’t warn about how
it would instantly become quite lugubrious when it detailed Pierce
using bird turd iPhone apps to crap on correspondences he didn’t like.
In the account, we experience a little hiccup of sprightliness – at the point
where the bioengineer places 3-D laser-sintered snotballs
on his girlfriends’ headboards. Oh! God knows we could use the levity.
We will see the man literally transform, and the first hints appear,
strangely, when he surgically attaches bioplastic breastplates
that protect him against the detrimental faux pas of gargling sugar-laced
bacterial mouthwash too loud in the bathrooms of geoengineering
facilities – a testimony, if ever there was one, to the character-molding
influences of friends.
Flippantly, and in a sense mockingly – for every kind act in Pierce’s
skimpy repertory of kind acts carries a faint whiff of mockery, of
condescension – Pierce stars in the account as a man who’d ‘benevolently’
deign to necromancing his neighbor’s hamster out of a
chaos of wet sloppy noodles on the mantelpiece. Ptuh!
Of course the account has so far been nothing but tired, even during
the exciting moments. Even when our subject swills beer containing
nanotechnology that washes his ass and scrubs his armpits and combs
his hair and sweetens his breath – and we can feel ourselves begin
to yawn rudely (if you’re reading/hearing this in the company of
colleagues or loved ones) when Pierce, at night, before bed,
drapes himself in a large mountain insulator, the very same cowl of
mirroring Doritos Tibetans have recently begun to find useful in hiding
crops, llamas and ancient crowdsourcing techniques from the Chinese.
Here, now, is Pierce at his vainest: yawn-inducingly, the account has
Pierce molding his name (i.e. Pierce Monae) in silicon letters
based on Palatino serif, and some of you may next fall into a deep stupor
when he publishes an epic poem about his internal organs
‘plateauing’ in a fashion horribly literal and unaesthetic.
Can there be a distinction between his organs making art and
their acting up in medical terms horribly technical?
Doesn’t matter. This is all such boring shit, I don’t believe any
of you would even be around to witness Pierce marking his own downfall
by stuffing electrodes into his pierced, perforated belly (weird pun here
which the account lazily – tiredly? – fails to account for) in an attempt
to remedy the situation but in consequence turning into a baked potato.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
See-Saws Can Fall Either Way
With baby steps
the prince of the bad word
rescues god’s silence from
the wobbly grime,
Creationism for nerds
avoids physical contact
with that sparkly teat
nestled in seaweed in
the crib,
Shock operator
placing his dick in
a number between
5 and 7,
the prince of the bad word
rescues god’s silence from
the wobbly grime,
Creationism for nerds
avoids physical contact
with that sparkly teat
nestled in seaweed in
the crib,
Shock operator
placing his dick in
a number between
5 and 7,
How Hansel and Gretel Died In My Copy Of ‘Hansel And Gretel’
Imagine instead of a witch’s house Hansel and Gretel
visit a casino. The advice I’d give them is
to listen to the unknown. Because that’s where
their breadcrumbs are falling into. It shouldn’t be
too difficult to understand this concept because there isn’t too
great a distinction between a scary forest
and a casino – especially since said forest has the ingenuity
to yield kitsch houses made of sweets.
So. I’d say to make sure it’s man-made, though mostly it always
is. The unknown may be a little immature, just like the
actuarial science that run gambling houses and tap dopamine
from purple-haired mummies, but it should also
be crumbling, and mostly these houses of fate are…
You need to have something like toothpaste in
your ear to hear it, though – hardened, day-old toothpaste
because it needs to absorb the percussions of this
man-made, immature, crumbling, not too mathematical –
because nobody trusts an overly mathematical – unknown.
The witch-house facilities cough – from all the skinny
aerobics taking place inside – so
do exercise some courtesy before entering; like knocking.
The door draft would blow you away if you’re cocky.
These two children walked into unknown time and
when Hansel looked, his Casio wristwatch was soaked with
the strangest snot: therefore, young man, I’d say to
use toothpaste, because certain brands especially – even
in a day-old state – they’re rather snotty, but
cheap, crusty ones work too. Put it
in your ear, dude, the ear you’re listening to forest-time with…
A very scary chapter in my copy of ‘Hansel and Gretel’ told about
how neither Hansel nor Gretel wore gumboots when walking
into the drenched casino, although their toes felt those percussions
and, man, it was like Pac-Man snapping at the fallen coins, the
dying dead, water like tea embellished
to resemble such liquids only scoundrel foot
masseurs could coax – in this alternate addition of ‘Hansel and
Gretel’ – from podalic pores; and
this was when I remembered all the cars
outside were parallel parked. Oh, misguided
parallel parkers! Haven’t you learned from this dark
lesson in navigation? They died in the end, didn’t
they? In my copy their dumb breadcrumbs
were treats to the House (I call that old, mole-nosed lady ‘the
House’ – no offense to witches everywhere), vaccine-soaked
cotton wool for its fat-starved wanderlust on the trail of the
directionally innocent, scare tactics that attract
like contraceptives attract agoraphobic, sociophobic, stay-at-
home sperm cells. Why couldn’t the witch have bred her
own children in a cauldron or something and eaten them or
something before they were even ready?
Otherwise we wouldn’t have seen something beautiful:
the dumb breadcrumbs turning into a mysterious, unchartered
sea. In my addition there was a craphouse-full of them, so many
and they crackled under the stomping, jingling, slot-machine
soles of the two irresponsible children, who
didn’t hear a thing but eventually – yeah, I think they
eventually just didn’t hear anything.
visit a casino. The advice I’d give them is
to listen to the unknown. Because that’s where
their breadcrumbs are falling into. It shouldn’t be
too difficult to understand this concept because there isn’t too
great a distinction between a scary forest
and a casino – especially since said forest has the ingenuity
to yield kitsch houses made of sweets.
So. I’d say to make sure it’s man-made, though mostly it always
is. The unknown may be a little immature, just like the
actuarial science that run gambling houses and tap dopamine
from purple-haired mummies, but it should also
be crumbling, and mostly these houses of fate are…
You need to have something like toothpaste in
your ear to hear it, though – hardened, day-old toothpaste
because it needs to absorb the percussions of this
man-made, immature, crumbling, not too mathematical –
because nobody trusts an overly mathematical – unknown.
The witch-house facilities cough – from all the skinny
aerobics taking place inside – so
do exercise some courtesy before entering; like knocking.
The door draft would blow you away if you’re cocky.
These two children walked into unknown time and
when Hansel looked, his Casio wristwatch was soaked with
the strangest snot: therefore, young man, I’d say to
use toothpaste, because certain brands especially – even
in a day-old state – they’re rather snotty, but
cheap, crusty ones work too. Put it
in your ear, dude, the ear you’re listening to forest-time with…
A very scary chapter in my copy of ‘Hansel and Gretel’ told about
how neither Hansel nor Gretel wore gumboots when walking
into the drenched casino, although their toes felt those percussions
and, man, it was like Pac-Man snapping at the fallen coins, the
dying dead, water like tea embellished
to resemble such liquids only scoundrel foot
masseurs could coax – in this alternate addition of ‘Hansel and
Gretel’ – from podalic pores; and
this was when I remembered all the cars
outside were parallel parked. Oh, misguided
parallel parkers! Haven’t you learned from this dark
lesson in navigation? They died in the end, didn’t
they? In my copy their dumb breadcrumbs
were treats to the House (I call that old, mole-nosed lady ‘the
House’ – no offense to witches everywhere), vaccine-soaked
cotton wool for its fat-starved wanderlust on the trail of the
directionally innocent, scare tactics that attract
like contraceptives attract agoraphobic, sociophobic, stay-at-
home sperm cells. Why couldn’t the witch have bred her
own children in a cauldron or something and eaten them or
something before they were even ready?
Otherwise we wouldn’t have seen something beautiful:
the dumb breadcrumbs turning into a mysterious, unchartered
sea. In my addition there was a craphouse-full of them, so many
and they crackled under the stomping, jingling, slot-machine
soles of the two irresponsible children, who
didn’t hear a thing but eventually – yeah, I think they
eventually just didn’t hear anything.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Tell Your Bodyguard To Back Off, Please
Combat is offered now, but at a bonanza accepting
such a thing can be dodgy. It may be featuring tranquility
instead of cheap splatter. I just know I’d feel very dazed
while contemplating the offer, like I’d been on a still-white,
black-blood diet for a week.
There’s a moment where closing your eyes and walking
on a high rail your out-of-control clothes
crust with rough stabilization: failure happens next
but it isn’t in losing your balance or dropping your
keys from on high on a parked car’s hood, slamming
right through it and creating a lewd, extempore manhole.
Failure lies in forgetting the many lovelorn singles
who during your selfish, ecstatic moment of
amnesia still relied on the Mixtape – each song a
flailing limb, a brick or iron-cast foot that clumsily leans
in the wrong direction and throws off the rest of that
bright weight pointing at what you should be stopped from
wanting but you forgot those – now you leave the fair
with a stupid teddy bear.
Please tell your bodyguard that it’s disruptive as
hell to either hit someone over the head with a cannon,
to modify it so it can look at the spot of concentration poised
on your purchase of all that’s combative and magically beam
a large heavy round object – via magnetic stilts or
with matchsticks’ burning, quickly scissoring legs –
into it; or to use the cannon conventionally.
Tell him, please, because it’s very very disruptive. You know how
long I have to choose to pick this item off the shelf? Exactly
one nanosecond. Then it’s gone. Poof. The passenger saw the
bird on the wing and his throat lost that large parking
space in which only something as tinny and flat
as an airplane meal can park. Some wise people
often wander around bonanzas throwing pebbles at
people but sometimes also pelting them with such over-cooked,
phlegm-dripping nuggets as: ‘Sometimes, you can only choose
between war and choking.’
Ouch! Which is also the unlikely sound – in a dirty toilet – of
bankruptcy. A brooding cannon-drone in a daydream.
Vandalism attracted to lavish reflections of zeros, dreams learning
shaking hands, to erase the vampire, to intricately pick the
splatter from the cross-stitching. Dumbass! Your quest is
for infringement – of what? Of white rule, which is OK; but
also of the humble Indian and of the broken family, which is
ALREADY BROKEN, man. Can’t you see? And this
imperfection is so passive aggressive, just like your
bodyguard—a veritable cannonball of brooding honor
slipped through the trellis of a heart surgery.
Now this is how you make a mug on a prison photo look
self-assured: you make it look like a wedding photo. You’re
not given long to do this. You’re given an eternity insulted
by a small child. It shrinks it nicely. But to make a wedding photo
look self-assured you have to make it look like
a jailbreak. Praise for a penny. It’s that kind of bonanza.
You’re this kind of boy next door. The type who doesn’t
throw pebbles up at windows but instead throws mixtapes
containing singles alternating between death metal and
schlock rock. Petroltank-crushed ’nads. Coldplay.
such a thing can be dodgy. It may be featuring tranquility
instead of cheap splatter. I just know I’d feel very dazed
while contemplating the offer, like I’d been on a still-white,
black-blood diet for a week.
There’s a moment where closing your eyes and walking
on a high rail your out-of-control clothes
crust with rough stabilization: failure happens next
but it isn’t in losing your balance or dropping your
keys from on high on a parked car’s hood, slamming
right through it and creating a lewd, extempore manhole.
Failure lies in forgetting the many lovelorn singles
who during your selfish, ecstatic moment of
amnesia still relied on the Mixtape – each song a
flailing limb, a brick or iron-cast foot that clumsily leans
in the wrong direction and throws off the rest of that
bright weight pointing at what you should be stopped from
wanting but you forgot those – now you leave the fair
with a stupid teddy bear.
Please tell your bodyguard that it’s disruptive as
hell to either hit someone over the head with a cannon,
to modify it so it can look at the spot of concentration poised
on your purchase of all that’s combative and magically beam
a large heavy round object – via magnetic stilts or
with matchsticks’ burning, quickly scissoring legs –
into it; or to use the cannon conventionally.
Tell him, please, because it’s very very disruptive. You know how
long I have to choose to pick this item off the shelf? Exactly
one nanosecond. Then it’s gone. Poof. The passenger saw the
bird on the wing and his throat lost that large parking
space in which only something as tinny and flat
as an airplane meal can park. Some wise people
often wander around bonanzas throwing pebbles at
people but sometimes also pelting them with such over-cooked,
phlegm-dripping nuggets as: ‘Sometimes, you can only choose
between war and choking.’
Ouch! Which is also the unlikely sound – in a dirty toilet – of
bankruptcy. A brooding cannon-drone in a daydream.
Vandalism attracted to lavish reflections of zeros, dreams learning
shaking hands, to erase the vampire, to intricately pick the
splatter from the cross-stitching. Dumbass! Your quest is
for infringement – of what? Of white rule, which is OK; but
also of the humble Indian and of the broken family, which is
ALREADY BROKEN, man. Can’t you see? And this
imperfection is so passive aggressive, just like your
bodyguard—a veritable cannonball of brooding honor
slipped through the trellis of a heart surgery.
Now this is how you make a mug on a prison photo look
self-assured: you make it look like a wedding photo. You’re
not given long to do this. You’re given an eternity insulted
by a small child. It shrinks it nicely. But to make a wedding photo
look self-assured you have to make it look like
a jailbreak. Praise for a penny. It’s that kind of bonanza.
You’re this kind of boy next door. The type who doesn’t
throw pebbles up at windows but instead throws mixtapes
containing singles alternating between death metal and
schlock rock. Petroltank-crushed ’nads. Coldplay.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
A group Of Angry People, Fist-Shaped On The Horizon
Man, we’re miles away from any ketchup and
stop looking at the fishmonger’s
work-worn knuckles and at his
yellow armpits: fish and chips wouldn’t freely
dislocate from all the tough things
this man’s seen.
A fellow drug addict – a good one, one who knows
that fistful of thumbtacks squeezed by his
need, and our need – can help us with our addiction.
Just shut up and listen, okay? This guy comes
highly recommended – because he’s almost
constantly to be seen on a Vespa on
drifts of hooters and
when you switch his supply
chain? Calm as a lake. As unfazed and silly-looking as
a romantic criticized
and getting an asskicking
for his romantic unfashionable beard
but – fazed? Ruffled? Not in the least.
What may stop us from reaching him
is the head of that weather phenomenon
that’s rearing up there yonder, like male pattern
baldness over a dome of glistening, flaky crimson. If you’d
turn to the window on your right and
observe the asthmatic bluster – you’ll
see it. Our treat will be to observe something
on the horizon that looks, basically, like angry people. You
know it’s often counter-intuitive to addictively want,
but Rodriguez is the calmest fucker I know: reaches out
in orgasmic self-help and grabs
one hooter (said hooter thinks
someone else grabbed it. I know,
but you have to be prepared for rejection,
your sojourn in addiction may be a finger in
an asshole and your calmness may spit
in your face), a bit
freckled (the hooter) and the
areola soft and a
bit wrinkled: entertainment! Not path-obstructing
angering anger! In answer to your question he got
that ding on the chrome rear fender
of his Vespa from backing up
against a milestone in the south
of France; you didn’t want that much
information, I thought you wanted to meet
the guy? Likeminded individuals are
so fine whereas angry people
look like the weather especially
from afar, when gathered in a
fist-shaped clump on e.g. the horizon
like that horizon yonder … Oh that’s just a huge purple
umbrella the hand is holding
over the Collective Mass’s head – not
ominous cloud cumuli…
The calm is the calm. The fear is the substance-less-ness;
and yet you’re too afraid – or hungry –
to track the zooming Vespa down.
He’s got a beard, yeah. What? No
fucking way he’s a romantic.
Pfft. Would I EVER put our addiction in
the hands of someone who’s such a romantic
he a) grows a ridiculous beard, and b) is so
distracted by his romantic affiliations he actually
grows a ridiculous beard, and c) is too
distracted by his romantic affiliations to
help our metabolisms back on their feet?
It’s still a disaster – your, my, his neural makeups
wear disaster makeup – if you were wondering why
the angry hand was gathered outside
looking one moment very far away (like on
the horizon) and the next right here
wanting to punch the window out.
stop looking at the fishmonger’s
work-worn knuckles and at his
yellow armpits: fish and chips wouldn’t freely
dislocate from all the tough things
this man’s seen.
A fellow drug addict – a good one, one who knows
that fistful of thumbtacks squeezed by his
need, and our need – can help us with our addiction.
Just shut up and listen, okay? This guy comes
highly recommended – because he’s almost
constantly to be seen on a Vespa on
drifts of hooters and
when you switch his supply
chain? Calm as a lake. As unfazed and silly-looking as
a romantic criticized
and getting an asskicking
for his romantic unfashionable beard
but – fazed? Ruffled? Not in the least.
What may stop us from reaching him
is the head of that weather phenomenon
that’s rearing up there yonder, like male pattern
baldness over a dome of glistening, flaky crimson. If you’d
turn to the window on your right and
observe the asthmatic bluster – you’ll
see it. Our treat will be to observe something
on the horizon that looks, basically, like angry people. You
know it’s often counter-intuitive to addictively want,
but Rodriguez is the calmest fucker I know: reaches out
in orgasmic self-help and grabs
one hooter (said hooter thinks
someone else grabbed it. I know,
but you have to be prepared for rejection,
your sojourn in addiction may be a finger in
an asshole and your calmness may spit
in your face), a bit
freckled (the hooter) and the
areola soft and a
bit wrinkled: entertainment! Not path-obstructing
angering anger! In answer to your question he got
that ding on the chrome rear fender
of his Vespa from backing up
against a milestone in the south
of France; you didn’t want that much
information, I thought you wanted to meet
the guy? Likeminded individuals are
so fine whereas angry people
look like the weather especially
from afar, when gathered in a
fist-shaped clump on e.g. the horizon
like that horizon yonder … Oh that’s just a huge purple
umbrella the hand is holding
over the Collective Mass’s head – not
ominous cloud cumuli…
The calm is the calm. The fear is the substance-less-ness;
and yet you’re too afraid – or hungry –
to track the zooming Vespa down.
He’s got a beard, yeah. What? No
fucking way he’s a romantic.
Pfft. Would I EVER put our addiction in
the hands of someone who’s such a romantic
he a) grows a ridiculous beard, and b) is so
distracted by his romantic affiliations he actually
grows a ridiculous beard, and c) is too
distracted by his romantic affiliations to
help our metabolisms back on their feet?
It’s still a disaster – your, my, his neural makeups
wear disaster makeup – if you were wondering why
the angry hand was gathered outside
looking one moment very far away (like on
the horizon) and the next right here
wanting to punch the window out.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
The Last Intern On Earth
everything in slow-motion
with their water-filled
(fulfilled) baby’s brain
free power flowing
backwards because everything
is still dying: the last intern at the
last hospital seeks to
conceal the last
case of gonorrhea with thumbscrews
sort of in a classroom but the windows
are different
like hysterical blood
or
else the t-shirt holding intestines
looks different, and is not
see-through
the man who really built the
mechanical crocodile is
guilty, sick
and I’m awful – yeah,
I’m awful
unmarried and
awful
mothering
the crocodile
making friends
with that awesome phone
directory
that thing really rocks
friends’ names centipeding up
and down through-
out! so have you seen it?
with a clever twist in
and guiding humanity back into
its chickenpox suit, hoot! – in/on
the living room-
wigiboard-like
rug
ejected
cake face, the last intern on earth
threw
the party
I suppose in what all came
down to a friendship with
deadly cobalt in the wrong
haunted house
hooting dream-slashing
ejects cake, the hooting broadcasting
in a sort of banner ad:
Lobster Charity!
(pick the one who can stare the longest without laughing
into your eyes
through the tank’s glaucus wall.
He/she is the bravest, will
take the boiling water like a man)
you’re a centipede
living in the cobalt citizen’s intestine
but you’re furious – ten
to one at what the porn star/activist/blogger
wrote about the
leggy etiquette you employ
upping your blood-pressure
in the end probably with this gem:
‘When rolled up, from
fear – its to-die-for little legs tucked in – it looks
like a charred earth.’
ten to one
the porn star became
a blogger after first being
a porn star
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