Cranberry Bowls

Just drop it. Kitty kat staring at the feet of the V shaped vessels of harmony. Don't dissuade to see why we may not even like the hot stereos. Bit by bit I know that even within the growing towels that no one will ever love me. Professional use of karma may indeed load us with agreeable perversions of autonomous vestige. Like all deals, neither you nor I can pop out the cans because sound waves are ever effervescent. Vibrate like the toy you hide within the secret cave. I want it. You want it. So drop it. Drop it and sit down. Pink cubes float around all of us and yet you say you can't see it. Don't you smell the tinge of fiber within the books. Their spiral bound greatness intrigues only the mice. Squished tomatoes and socks with holes the mexicans can't triforce. Just say it's over. It's all over. Close that door and forget. Raise that glass and toss it on the stove. Beats push forward and flush the room of awesome craze.

randint(

a contrived coincidence catalyzed the uncovering of countless more

each candid kiss unveiling improbable serendipity

cautious optimism

15o11

But hark! Yet do I see not yonder forth a light?
It be-eth a last shimmering hope!
Just slightly out of grasp and slowly, ever so slowly falling away.
But I do not reach out.
I stare as it blinks. As it flickers. As it calls out to me.

All I do is stare.

That Is All

I can see only shades of grey.

Click to enlarge.

I'm not a ParasitE

It's just all symbiotic!
Just two separate entities
Living a lie

I Can't do much without you
You can all without me
But you still insist on being infected
and taking me along for the ride

I know I can survive on my own
just barely
You can do fine without my help

You could say we're commensal or maybe mutualistic
But we know we're FLUX

Suburbia Scene

FLMST 102 - Scene assignment #1 from SubUrbia(1996) - http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120238/

I feel this one. It's about having and losing. About people and what we let them do to us almost against our own will. Open, again and again but goddamn I knew your actions maybe before even you did. I almost want to laugh at the repetition, floundering pathetic and I wish it was not me. Not you.

I'm worried. Insecure. I hear myself say the memorized words and know they sound fake. I know that I'm fake. I want to succeed but to let your strange topography touch me deep is an invasion of privacy that I can't stand. The past lets me relate to this other person's fantasy but keeps me from letting you see that I know, I understand. Is that ironic?

"Six-fifty" becomes a plea for understanding "come with me" I LOVE YOU and "new ground" becomes everything I ever hated about you.

It's not really acting anymore, is it?

Intermission Breaks the Illusion

Wrapped in your insecurities I greet the morning with the friction of our flesh, pushing pulling dashed against my dreams. You never slept so poorly. I stood face upturned in your barrage of words you give so easily, and knew this storm could not last but I thought we could ignore the forecast a while longer. And now someone's sunny days have arrived and I find myself again voyeuristic, always leaving leaving never left.

I never dream anymore. Only play pretend with myself and others, your temporary cooperation is appreciated. Thank you, don't come again.

A revolving cast of distinct faces, my roots seep down through the cracks in the stage and I can't help but wonder out loud "Who today, and what tomorrow?"

Put pen to paper, everybody plays and are played.

Maybe I never should've put myself between five sons. Do you reap what you fuck?

""

I have nothing to say.
I have to say nothing.
I have, to say, nothing.

Mr. Fantastic Has Got Nothing On Me

If only we could find the real meaning of things.
Not everything is crystal clear.
It's a haze and the smoke shreds your retinas.
But we don't only rely on sight.
Try to hear out and reach out to touch what's in front of you.
Careful not to fall. Avoid the obstacles and walk away from the noise.
It's too bad you can't see.
Outside is just a reach away.

Far From It

And I always thought I was the fucked up one.
In a sense...I am.
But so are you. And you. And all the rest of us fuckers.
We all desperately wish to be the one at a disadvantage, even those who deny it. Where's the sense of pride of accomplishing everything and nothing in life if everything's been given to you?
There's a disease here. It's the human race. We must stop it.

h(t)urT

I am full of shit.
I have nothing but excuses to tell you.
Excuse me, I am a hypocrite.
Please try to understand. It's how we are all raised.
A dystopian utopia.
That's where we live. It's all a fucking illusion.
Don't look away.

That Is The Sum

I am a pleasure seeking whore
My future lies in pieces on the floor
I am the blind man who can see
I walk on wire surrounded by fog
My steps echo around the confines
of the room in which I am locked away
No doors or windows to let me out

Drug Fueled

Here's a great big fuck you to the world, eat this you piece of shit cuntbox. I am angry and I am finally ready to express it. I bounced the ball so high that it momentarily covered the sun and I wept at the beautiful sight, the fleeting relief, I'm undone by you. I promise not to hold on to the tail of this roaring mountain, it will pass me by and I will hesitate ever so precariously perched at the intersection of hate and morose wondering if I can step without earth quake. They built this cage around me with little white pills and I'm safely contained but angry angry pained, one replaced by another, what was the point of this exchange? I don't have much time and you're bleaching all the colors from the walls I want to beg but that's pathetic well maybe a little bit won't hurt too bad. Don't go don't go don't let me go I hate the weight of need that strikes me over and over again my head against the bricks thudding softly gently lovingly. It feels important, it feels like something big but I know in hindsight everything is diminished and I'll soon forget like everything everyone else have a good run sunny days I'll be waiting under the rain.

Dream.

There were insects living in my body. In the fleshy center of my right foot, nestled under the curved arch was a long white grasshopper, safe and warm in the hole it had dug for itself. A fat cockroach 3 inches long scuttled under my skin, making long graceful loops around my right foot and ankles, never staying in one place. A large prehistoric creature resembling a bothriolepis canadensis hugged my left knee cap, so perfectly married to my movement so that it was virtually undetectable. I wanted to crush them under my weight to cease the constant twitching but somebody informed me that that would release their eggs into my bloodstream and turn me into one cozy incubator for a whole batch of little invaders. I hobbled around, conducting everyday business, always aware, always afraid.

I had forgotten about my guest in my left leg until it forcefully propelled itself out of my body, exploded out of my tissues and scurried away in to a long hallway.

The cockroach grew bold and began to climb up my leg, heading for my crotch. When it made its way into the fleshy part of my thigh, I clutched a fistful of the fat, trapping the bug under stretched almost translucent skin. The membrane easily gave way under my fingernails, and I popped the bug out of my leg, leaving behind a red gaping wound. There was no pain. Only victory.

I decided to go to a doctor to get the grasshopper removed. I did not know how to reach into my foot and extract the bug without breaking parts of it off.

I think it's worth noting that I fell asleep to the dull thuds and scripted moans of my neighbors fucking.

I Need A Resistor

It strikes and it strikes hard.
Live wire and charge volted.
Stand there ungrounded.

A super-surge across your heart and through your eyes.
Snap the wires, flail!
Shock remember, catch them with your eyes.
How do you feel?

I'm sorry, this wasn't supposed to happen.
I sad high, thinking it'd never change.
But the storm came.
Oh, how it mixes.

How close are you to it?
Careful, I might bite again.

Do you think it's best to just let them stay like that?
Maybe it'll fix itself.
That's what I'm hoping for.

Let's See.

Let's talk about what you've done - this breach of the clean break between my solitary valley and your raging forest. I can't work any longer with this son on my back, beating my brow like the drug-fueled rhythm of my pen, scratching throughout the night, curling under my skin, echoing through my head until even the softest sign is amplified with the force of a lover's blow.

I'll take this unmediated approach to your scent and crush it between my palms until your juices run between my fingers and pool in the dips and crevices of the cold dark floor. It drifts in through through the windowsill, seeps into every surface until I'm faced with the fantasy, of you, everywhere I turn; especially in my dreams. Like a series of cascading notes you flow through, leaving moisture in the wake.

The quake subsides and I'm on the precipice of collapsing the deck, giving it away, letting it spoil. Words words words push against the razor edge of my teeth, buzz at the tip of my fingers, leak from the corner of my eye. Details cut against my defense - I'm reduced to a pile of powder waiting waiting waiting for... what?

Patrick Procrastinating

Pretentious proclamations pounced places predetermined
prattling pricks pondered presence
Proto-Merkabah pounded plates
priestly prophecies plotted pernicious precipitation
promises put plainly placate proletarians
plastics predate palladium
perennial pathways provide passage
partway plundered palaces plant
Panama's preeminent planetary pornography
pregnant polygamous pinhead
Patton planned peppering pawns
ploys penned partly pragmatically
presents pacify prenuptial paedophytes
paranoid pussies panic pall-bearing pissants
pangea's power
population's psychologies parabolically plummet
Penis.

-Patrick

Not My Apples

Brazen chill of fire wrestle life out of the lake.
The life of he is wandering in the loser of a heart burned in the sight of the forgetters.
Pick me up by the shoulders, Saints, before the wolves rush through the tunnels and define me.
Bleed the fire, Heat up the hearth with my heart.
Gouge my organs and solder my eyes shut.
Then I won't cry.

The whore will suck you dry.
You'll throw the last of your life towards him.
Regions of toxic abominations will fight their way into your mind.
You're poisoned now, dear.
Keep yourself clear.

He Just Might Be Into Me

So last night I went on a date. With a guy. That I met online.

I know what you're thinking. That's creepy. That's dangerous. He might have diseases. He might be psychotic. What's wrong with you? Can't you make friends like normal people? Do you have to resort to a dating website?

But the thing is, it was actually quite fun. We talked a lot before meeting in real life. He was nice. We went and saw He's Just Not That Into You and made fun of it. Then we came home and watched Man From Earth. We talked about deep things, shared pretty private information. He says what he means. He doesn't play games. We ended up making out pretty heavily on the couch.

Then he says that he's not easy. That he doesn't sleep with people on the first date. That I'm really cute. That he's only slept with three people in his life. That I smell good. That he's moving to San Francisco in April because he's gotten a job as a video game developer for a small company. That we'll definitely see each other again. We kiss in the light drizzling rain leaning up against his truck and he tells me I'm not that short but then I point out that I'm wearing heels.

So now I'm that girl. Waiting by the phone. Checking my email, facebook, text, IM. Waiting for him to call. Wondering if I should call him. Or text him. Or message him. Replaying the night over and over again in my head. Talking about it with my girlfriends. Wondering if I was a good kisser. Wondering when we'll hang again.

I'm not even all that into him. He's decent looking, decent at kissing, moderately interesting. But he's easy to hang out with and soft and new.

I also got totally stood up by this other guy who I have all these classes with and now I'm worrying about whether it'll be awkward on Tuesday and whether we should not sit next to each other anymore or not make too big a deal about it whether I should mention that I went on a date with another guy this weekend or whether that's too obviously flaunting my desirability. How could I have been so stupid, he didn't ask for my number I asked for his so obviously he wasn't interested, why did you think that he was?

So anyways. I haven't done any homework, I'm on anti-depressants even though I'm not depressed, and I'm hungry but too lazy to cook. It's cold, I have a shitty gas heater and my clingy ex-boyfriend won't stop iming me, messaging me, texting me every single fucking day.

I'm so sick of boys.

And all I got was this crummy t-shirt

Bowel shaking earthquakes of doubt and remorse assailed me impaled me with monster truck force in my mind I was still driving still striving still making the grade but still given time her memories never did fade cuz i was racing and pacing and plotting the course and fighting and biting and riding on my horse and there was no moon to follow the sun i should've strived for more than to just have some fun but those times are over now I'm holding a gun these lyrics are worse than what I'd penned then and it's hard to make it rhyme when its not separated into stanzas but my attention span is shorter than george costanza and I went the distance and I went for speed but it never added up so I'll continue to feed my ego with this angsty stream of consciousness I've set myself up for failure because nothing rhymes with consciousness I'd be a terrible rapper so thank God I've got a sense of humor because I have an extra dimension to examine there's a purple layer inside these pokemon cards that the bootleg ones dont have but I need to give things context to those not privy to the director's commentary in my brain and now I'm compelled to write a line that ends with the word "pain" even though it belabors the point that I'm no less whiny and in the face of the reconstruction i've gone through in the past quadrage I'm still just a speck of lint on the penis of an alien but that's what the years will do because I kept mum on the fact that I was the one who supervised the construction of light none of this would be here were it not for me I am the Savior you've all been waiting for the blueprints were triple checked and the supplies all accounted for the dayvan cowboy surfed through and demanded some more but I'd given my all the budget all spent so the need arose for me to become clark kent I hid in the phone booth waiting for the end still knowing that it was me alone who had the power to rend this universe and its neighboring properties this shit was going to get torn up like the subject of some obscure pop culture refence that I was compelled to assimilate while the french awoke from their naps to discover that they'd missed the boat and the missiles had been fired by a malfunctioning computer but they were too hairy and apathetic to do anything about it and that, folks, was a tangent which is something else I treasure tangents and obsucre pop culture references I am truly The Product of the Family Guy generation and my contempt for my creator is more ironic than rain on my wedding day oh my god alanis morisette sucks you know if you say "oh my god" in lower case then it's not bad because His name is not "god" it's "God" and even that is up for debate because "God" is still just a word in the english language his actual name is the intentionally unpronouncable "YHVH" which I'm assuming makes more sense in Hebrew but regardless where was I going? Yes all the references and trivia, I'd accumulated it maybe to compensate for something? There's definitely a more immediate return on knowing that kind of stuff than learning things that actually matter. I can walk up to Joe Bro and say "hey remember the part where Seth McFarlane cut his arm off and lopped the head off of pop culture and connected his spurting stump to our vernacular with a bendy straw?" This message brought to you by my feelings of inadequacy brought on by a victim complex inspired by some of the greats of our day. There's so much potential but if I get to feel troubled by not reaching it that makes me feel I don't know? What is the core feeling of turmoil. I'm having trouble distilling the spirit there's too much ectoplasm in the way I do think that once the zeitgeist is jarred and labelled I'll be better able to see how I'm directly guiding its course and I will inevitably be disappointed at how little control I really have over the rudder but I'll get to make a generalized statement about the human condition and isn't that all we really want anyway?

This Will Be the End of Everything

I spend inordinate amounts of time blaaaaaaaaaaaaaah thinking about either music or religion. Both have become an escape for me. An irresponsible escape. Is my increasing interest in music and the production/creation of said escape due to my decreased involvement with religion? My heart is beating faster as I write this. I am the bitch of my subconsciousness. I think that deep down what makes people religious is that most Abrahamic faiths preach some sort of end of everything. This completely excludes eastern religion because they're doing it wrong. Reincarnation? A fate worse than eternal hellfire. Bramin is the highest caste in Indian society if memory serves, but I could be wrong because I learned that like six years ago. Bramin also sounds like ramen. Just saying. So back to this that and the other thing. The most appealing aspect of abolishing my agnosticism is the assuredness that the ad naseum aspirations of the apes will finally be arrested. We have an out. Christ said he would come soon, so I mean obviously he meant "soon" in the grand scheme of things because "soon" from the perspective of the bible would've come about 1,980 years ago which is also ironic because I think a lot of people thought he would come back during the 1980s because Regan was president because everybody thought Carter did a shitty job and Regan really did do a pretty good job I think he had the highest approval ratings of any president ever? let alone a republican. And just look where we are now. So in conclusion, a comet is taking too long to smack into the Earth so I feel that this is why some form of divine intervention has become necessary. I hope the council will at least consider these arguments and take a responsible course of action. Thank you, and good night.

A tree living with disease, feeding, persistent till the bell tolls our end. Tell me your concerns let's set forth our animosities like counting ducks in our shallow ponds. Hear me when I am speechless the rhythm of my silence beats strong, you say that there's power in our grasp but it's been nothing but whispers in my tongue. Remark, that we met last week in the corner of someplace and somewhere until our inks bled together slowly until I hardly even struggled to get past the first row. Now my mouth gapes, stretching with filth till the doorknockers turn away their faces from the echo of their own screams. Let us speak generally.

Twenty.

The day I turned 20 it hailed in LA. This struck me as poetic not so much for the uniqueness of the interaction but indeed because it was a rather un-unusual combination that became special only in my mind. I felt uncomfortably old, irrevocably separated from that scapegoat label "teen" and also intolerably young, just barely starting on two.

I loved aging in obscurity, as if the gravity of the situation was a precious secret to be protected from the false celebration of others. I imagined myself year after year, becoming an ageless constant like my mother, who hovered above late 30 no matter how many years passed.

I Think I AccidEntally The Whole ThinG.!

This cockamamie pandering of upholstery is not what I asked for. Can't you feel the butter squish between your toes? The pink balderberries fly into my ears. Stark raving lunatic, pistola in the sky. Rise beneath the quicksand you, that brandy isn't mine. Don't you think that piercing blue flash singles us out through the rearing crops of time? I can't hear the bullet rain drops fire upon the hilltops singing doo-wop songs.

Arching of the shoulders I release the trigger from the holster up upon the bee hive. Think critically about the mute thunders and the green mug filled with machines. Pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse. It stops!

It costs $10.78 to hear the myths that the thieves keep beneath their showels. It's the meta-prima role we play off the stage in the moonlight that keeps your lungs filled with air. So brush away the hair off that brow and bellow out before the worms...You are not my master.

On a Sunday.

I'm sick of your sass. Who cares if I've drowned myself in my bubbly sorrows swimming ten miles to reach the cusp of your lips so that I can have a chance at stroking the plush fur of a woman gone long time ago. Who care if mine eyes are no longer yours and I'm just running on and on in a memory so that you can no longer shout that you once knew me. I don't know where these scripts go or where my fingers trail, all I know is that today I spent five hours in the library poring over the remnants of a past far gone and it felt good. Your judgments have no traces on me, you ridiculous fog. I know I once walked the trail of the beaches that spread themselves wide and generous. I know I once had friends who cared, who spoke words that I heard before they were uttered. I know that this is temporary, so. temporary. that it hurts me to even think about what things may be a year two years five seven from now on. And if you want to remain close, to hug my words till they are squeezed till their drops limit then I don't frankly care because once they are released they're not really my pets, are they now? You knew this yet you are no longer known to me because you've changed and I expected as much but it's still unwelcome news arriving on the lips of a crow now estranged because in some small part, I expected to find the you that I once possessed. How is it that we are the focus of our own obsessions yet others are living their own roles with such fervor that we can no longer use building blocks, we're constantly taken by surprise, taken by the gasp, taken by the tail?

My fingers may tingle till they fall and my toes may wiggle till they jive but in the end it's the same old me that you never managed to know despite the best efforts of your limited reach. I wish I could've opened myself up to you but it was never meant to fit so and I assumed it was foolish to try because the sofa hugs me so well it was like the lover that I dreamed I'd have one day. I'm sick of your words, sick of your inane sufferings, sick of your total bullshit that you shove down me every day every second until I don't know which way is down and if only I could kill you I would relish the opportunity to do so with my own flesh clamping down on your veins like a fiery delivery of a play that once was written by a man, maybe a woman.

Don't say that I'm too vengeful because you know it's not true.

Twelve is the Name of Everything We've Never Loved

I took your hand in my small confused mind and cupped your cherry face in my hands but could never look into your eyes and see that you could still hear the flights of the terrors of the future. We gripped the side of the talons of fear and held on for dear death in hopes that the fall would be beautiful. The crashing burn of life and the fire of the inhabitants of each fickle hour we spend. Tired orgasms that rang over and over inside the television man's tilted screen. Gasping for life and a longing for a beautiful way to spill over into the furthest dimension. The crackle of bones and the smile of the saddest man wounded each creature that conquered what they had feared the most. Each movement of the bowing ferns turned the next new birth into plummet into the darkest chasm.

While the world slept in the tiniest thimble, the scientists fell victim to the woes of the mind and cowered underneath the veil of smoke and exhaustion. Beakers and vials to cure the hunger of the window's sadness and kill the disease of each shattered glass window. The mathematician fought against the fallen trees but only used the constants of their own realities to solve the bottled emotions that plagued the tired houses. The rain slid its fingernails down the side of her face and took her happiness and sold each piece back to the ocean. But her limbs knew her better than she thought had kept the pace of the tracks as they skipped and babbled on the record player. Collapsing onto the white hospital floor, her head struck open with the calls of reality and the crickets and frogs sprung from her. The fragments of love hovered through her being and touched every lonely man so that he, for a brief moment, knew the feeling of a punch from the wars of the past. She lay on the white floor and smiled at the mirrors and bandages that got her here. The warm lick of fire grazed the soul of the lost socks in the washer that no longer wanted someone to find them. Screaming from every rooftop, she knew that the loss and magic of death were kept in a tiny vial on the kitchen counter. White walls, white house, white clothes, white wine. Wrapped in the securities of knowing her own father, she lifted every pine needle inside her and felt her way to the glass. The tapping of her woodpecker hand on the opaque eyes of every onlooker rustled the time frame under which she understood reality. All the scientists saw was a dead body with the answer to the half life of love.


--

I was gonna do another but I'll do it later. Pickled fish lips.

It Tastes Like Fish

Clickety Clack! You hear those platonic footsteps come nearer. You turn those things called eyes up and view the bland afternoon from your throne. No feet to be seen or tasted. White shadows slip off the ceilings and smack the floor with a silent sound that jolts a fiery sensation down your spine. Your eyes sucked into your mind like a black hole. Flurry of rage, doves explode out from the asphault. We take our socks and wring out the saliva of the dillbratopators.

Fall through the screen you've been fucking with your eyes. See that it's all just a series of zeroes and ones.

I keep falling through this spectrum of fate that the hordes have forsaken me to. See that warp there, don't touch it! Gunslingers take the bait a war breaks loose the demons frolic. I don't care that you've fallen, grow your own hands to pick yourself up.

Her blonde hair sparks the thunderous roars of the saints. Take me with you away from this infested slaughterhouse. Rip the creators lies out of your brian and bang the mice against the pole. Eat it I tell you! Jump with them and we can chain ourselves to this mirage.

White Elephant in the Room.

The eyes are pretty important for your status in the line, waiting with certain nameless others bound by the silent volumes screaming to be heard through the curtains of time that have been tightly drawn shut like that time you took her and she closed herself to you, on you, over you again and again until there was nothing but your shut eyes, open mouth and the floating darkness that was filled but not quite because afterall, you were just a boy, not a boulder.

We're building around ourselves a thesis cobbled together with sheets of stained paper cuts in the flesh. So if you'll call this clean and take it to the movies then i guess I'll come along because I once looked like the sun that you used to moon over like a silly bird, singing songs about a future history that you never had. Dust rolls through your town but your can already left so you're stranded with your lists and boxes; the delivery will be delayed indefinitely. Oops.

Glamorized, idolized white image expands in the mirror and I am the spectator hovering above the deep beginning waiting for you to finish its end. He got my nose and never gave it back but I try not to think about the truth that I never cared enough to start with. Line up, why don't you?, at my door with your upturned feet, fists, fists, and slightly used hands, I never knew you weren't happy to see me go. Now that that's returned, we can be literal with each other, unlike when we were young but that was only a little ago, I even almost remember it.

A rusty nail can be two years old. Two years without even a hello on a birthday card that overstays its welcome until conditions change for the worse. At least I brought a song for us to sleep on even if I never waited for a reply you didn't have to carry that monkey up the river. Now that I stole your verse from the secondhand store I'm frankly quite upset with you for not a lot of reasons but still we knew the tree didn't have to burn quite so crisply in the middle of three, didn't we? Shame on us. Shame floats like a brick held down by the balloon I tentatively anchored my arms on with your green pen. Let it sit uncomfortably with them while I ascend down the stairs with with my basket of worries, freshly hatched by the corner. Sharp, she whispered for hours while somewhere I laughed and the parade passed us through skin, kinda clammy but not alltogether unpleasant. Sometime. Smile at me through the crack in the door, the dim is there for a purpose of power attentive.

Close it.

-

The boundaries are not clear. Let's start at 73. And then. Pause, pause, pause like a line of elephants rounding the corner of Regret and Laughter rings through the crown of my head. Back up a little if you want to find out where it'll all end up I'm pretty sure somebody planned for all this ugliness at some pointed edge. I'm sick with fever at the messages of need I threw out just to see what would catch when you're dropped from that high perch simultaneously with the enforced bottom, who hits fully first? Anybody hear read from the red chipped particulars, we might need you but nobody can be sure yet. Eyedealize the relative because deadlines are rising and the vigilance would've paid off if I had enough rules to scatter around the bay.

Too Many Fingers Inside the Dimension

The ramifications of these thoughts protrude out from under a car that's speeding through space on a lemon pie. I see the stars whizzing by in the bathroom where the floor is wet and dank. Dank like a joint where you take a long drag and carry the dead body out behind the Taco Bell. I stand at the gates of the fiery disco and get electrocuted by the great Zeus himself. He stands up and drinks the juice from the flower that the hummingbird flew over the pot of gold. The dragons sit on the kitchen and I eat bacon from the chalice made from coke and proceed to shoot the bitch up with a scythe. I really have to pee now that I've assimilated the jello.

--

Poopdeck farcy cracker pants. I don't know what that was. It's going to be wonderful when the stick men fly down the fires with trench coats made from corn. Is this really how things will turn left? It stinks like mug dipped in owl eyes. The hairs from the underwood I see prickle and sing the afternoon delight on a way that I could taste.

ICE! Can I have some apples to throw at the crows in the supermarket. He looks at the pancakes and screams in for the crimson dynamo that is a statue. It saunters across the river three days from the sunlight bouncing off the chrome ladder in the garage.

I try to see how one could start inside out of the pickles that one puts on a burger. I hate sliced pickles like they hate God. Mangos on the other hand are pretty pink ponies that need wings to follow the stick men just above the monkeys throwing acorns.

Vagina Lead Line Easter

So I thought to be scared of what I didn't know and what I had never seen but she knew that I could fly and I smiled. The door dropped open and the flocks of scarves I had never acknowledged sprung from the starting gate for flowers and tigers. Nodding from the grapefruit man, I tilted the pitcher and drooping language splattered from the depths of another subconscious. I still didn't know if I could or if the colors of my legs knew how to gallop along with the footage. My jaw dropped back into the second kaleidoscope as the sprouting feathers draped across the riverside. The underbrush writhed under the rising emotion and tears spewed from the gates of what we had come to see as a man's crooked mind. Dancing through woes and put into perspective, we saw that we could walk along with the promotion of everything including the tracks of bones laid by those we had never seen. Invisible bodies dragged across the mountains making rows of teacups as they toppled into the birds of the future. 'Okay, okay, okay' words shattered out of hidden windows of our relationship. 'Please don't take any care of the children' I had said to you before we flew the coop from all of the responsibility our creators had forgotten to give us. You turned your opinion to face my tears and said 'He told me to live a life with love and loss and never think of the day you never knew.' My sorrow blushed as his honesty and the tiny creases made new worlds at the points where they met.

--

Dropped kicked into a future of tears and fires, the trees ebbed back to the shore of the melting twelves and nines. A metamorphosis of the communal mind twisted through what we saw through the eyes of the flickering owls. I never made time to see myself anymore and I knew that everyone had seen the weathered lies we tried to show the rest of the world. Through the yellowed film strips I took everything I had and threw my mind into the ocean. Like magnets we lived the thrills and died in the fires we created in the widow's old home. We killed the phantoms of the baked bread and filled our heads with empty notes and packaged tampons. The sadness of our limbs ate through the tires of the rolling police cars firing down the lane like bottles of- FIRE FIRE FIRE. Now the towers fell near the homeless shouts that I sent to your brother with a postage stamp. Running past the emptied trees the sky blanketed the flowers like a melted chocolate chip. I saw your face in the water of the canopy and the- FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE. I didn't know how to run anymore and the crippled stumps and branches hobbled beside the fallen birds. They cried for the magic and the death of all things that could know their tired secrets. We wanted to love in mystery and figure the pieces of our limbs into a broken bicycle that no one rode. The lashes of the celestial shadows trembled into the darkened people of our own golden city. They were quiet and knew we had finished the future.

First.

See, that's why I told you to stay out of the kitchen. The eggs can be a little bit feisty on Tuesday mornings with fat girls bouncing around like jello, what do you really expect from them? Neighbors test our patience, like little angels sitting on window sills. When it snows I can see my breath like that one time when the cat acted surprised just to please me. I really do hate it when the blinking lights call my name from across the street and I have to walk all the way over in my bike with three wheels that clatter on the black sidewalk filled with whales. Writing with teeth is really hard but not as hard as riding camels with your toes. It's funny how you got all A's in your agnostic ascension while I managed to fly all the way to the moon and back with my three musket barrels and a backpack.

-

What is all this nonsense about being filled anyway. Like a rice cooker toppling over the window to the voice of the young girl I once saw carried by the orange breeze. I like it when it's in me but sometimes I resent it so I color it multirainbow and call it Bob. We can use them for our pleasure but enslavement only goes so far to upholster our couches like bright diamond kites floating in the water's surface, unbroken by the barks of the coyote that I once punched for telling a dirty joke. It called me a feminist.

So if I say fuck off, I really mean fuck me and you and everybody else for wearing those shoes that burn with the cold waves of math, science, and layered theory that somebody somewhere laid down because they had a lot of time on their hands that somebody laid at their feet and if the fireplace was a little bit warmer none of this would've taken place anyway. Like an abandoned bear rug in the middle of a forest where virgins were taken to live forever among the pomegranate trees and mossy old ladies with eyes in their hands. And when they reach out to shake you, you better run faster than you can because if you fall into the puddle, that's it, no more cupcakes for you and that pretentious dog, too.

If it's too short for you, then hell, you might as well take it upon yourself to bring a little pain into this bowl because we gotta fill it before the man comes back and hugs us for being who we are and not who we were. And if I wanna bake the cake then I damn well will frost it with snow because it needs a little sunshine in it's life.

-

I know they're good people when they like my underwear because really, it's called intimates for a reason. If you don't like the colors of my eyes then I guess I could pluck them out arranged across the silver platter that you call home so that the elk can sing a song for your lullaby on your return journey hope. And if you prefer them short then I guess I better leave because I refuse to stand tall for you in this icy gutter feeding on the scrap metal of the rich while the crows laugh their hee haw cry from the top of the buildings while itching their heads necks and toes.

And if sheep crawl like elephants in the dead silent morning fog then you can come along too while we discover spelunking in the dark where sparks fly. Be careful because they say it's dangerous territory and our guide just had a grilled cheese sandwich made with real lime juice and porpourri. I like when violets bloom in the high fields with the grasshoppers singing away like it's their last day on this Mars far away from their mothers' homes that once burned with the sound of crispy footsteps.

Sometimes I like to hold your special features in my mind until I'm not really sure whether it's been me or you that said that one thing that made me laugh and the sound rippled across the ground until it hit something sharp and then things weren't so good anymore. It's too bad things had to start that way although I guess I like endings because they leave a sense of permanence that's comforting in it's finality if not it's conclusion.

And that's how we've been living these days from one conclusion to another until we don't really see open doors anymore, it's really more about door jambs and curved locks that click in the dead of night until you can't stand the fingernails anymore so you rip it out like a barren woman.

Start.

"Ok, I tried to post this last night, got mootblocked for 2 hours, and then got pissed.
Yes too it was an original picture. So there.

Ok, here's the idea.
Random streams of typed out thought.
Just type. Don't pay attention to the main idea of the sentence.
Don't try to say anything profound.
Just try to relate the next word to the previous two or three words.
Try to make it a grammatically correct sentence, but don't really worry about it too much.
Just type.
Like this.


Sure, it's not like I always make the time less than my mother, but it's sort of a habit to eat the creeps like that.
After all, it's a sure thing when I go out to the time. Forever is not quite the color we all think it is; it's more of a tried and true activity that repeats itself until there's more trees than bushes and more people than things.


See. It makes no sense, but there's certain patterns we follow in language that makes it interesting when we disconnect the thought from the words.


You try. You might be surprised with what comes out."