knocked up across the universe.
I have been described as shampoo sexual.
I beach cuddle lobster at drive-in movie theaters.
I’ve been told that’s just an act.
I hail from the past several years.
I ask a lot of strangers.
I like jamon cream sauce and buffalo kitties in my socks.
by day, I’m algorithm change.
sometimes it’s leftovers.
deep siamese sea creatures are not going to hook up with you.
I’m the best bangarang in the universe.
my gut, a bit too loud.
The muppets probably won’t work out.
31 year old life is crazy little weirdo’s.
recent faves: Blood the Night Texas.
I love to dance African in Ann Arbor.
communism looks good on your shoulders.
It seems like we might make the perfect margarita together.
knocked up across the universe.
Your first day’s do’s
These 2 Tablets
as your first
1 Card x 6 Tablets
Then take 1 tablet each day.
Each tablet contains
Made in India
Your first day’s, day’s
Out of reach
Out of reach
Then take 1 tablets
each 4 days
x 6 days
Children of NJ
Not child resistant
250mg of Drugs.
loan me some
eaten with honey vinegar
produce profound nausea for the
And blankets are eaten by free.
Consisting of sin-thetic compounds underlined with mascaraic
boulder hopping pedandtic frogs of the log-o-sphere
Dimenshane-EL brain dippings
unprovoked wilderness of Howitzer control panel and intentional sore
anemia from the unstartled drapes of cloud
I love you
branded niggers sleep aging on
shores of the pathological hiders
saint professors eat walnuts from inside time capsules stone pizza fires.
I said Omolet.
But she didn’t speak French. And then Hennessey was zipping by.
The tubes of in vitro vistals
where glone nars read Liziosyncs
about the Talatwats
Because they’re not important enough.
Because no one is.
Because the television is on.
But no one is in there.
Because mice are greater than man.
Because the inside’s simple and outside is smaller.
I date neophlicktic timers
erogenated from the downs of
Where scoon doopers dial frenetically
chanting in languages so profound they turn
shit into semen.
And hair in my eyes.
my throat is already yours.
Screaming and strangled so bloody.
Eat me and
I dissolve on your tongue. Like
cookie dough from cold fingers.
My dad once took me fishing
a million times
I’d never get it.
He’d throw the rig out
and sit there
watching the line.
I could never look
just at the line, there
was a whole ocean
and sky and wind blowing sand, seagulls
diving, foxes padding up and down,
the coast looking for washed up bait.
He’d sit in his chair
broken from weight
and just watch or
attach a bell to it
so it would, so it could
ring like mad
when something hooked itself.
I know you think I should.
And so on and so forth.
I know you’ve got me trained.
So all I can do is just sit and subscribe.
But then there listen. The real Grammar subscribes
not to anybody or any people who. The real grammar is mad and
shrinks you deeper.
Until your lungs fill up with her cum. and all you can see
through, is another man’s cock pounding her, pounding you
and love it.
Because you’re they and he’s you in the long run
we all come back for eachother and we all have a night
like that. There just isn’t another way about it, except this one, except these backwards and hattered ways that stroke the indigenous in us all.
I see myself hiding in a corner from myself, plotting against myself.
I hear myself creeping through the house and banging into things
I hear MAN screaming
loud sounds, one after the other, like thunder in a gun.
I wake up mad and sometimes paralyzed, not from fear but from DMT.
And then I scare myself myself.
I see fuzzy images. I hear I feel terrible things and all of it overwhelms me and I feel a surge of power of fight and light and perpetual holyness and divine or whatever. And I’m there loaded and fighting against this bat demon who floats around your bedroom walls, around your subconscious and prepares to destroy with everything you have taken. You are helpless to yourself. But you get through it because the alternative is actually dying, the alternative is seeing the truth, that there is nothing there or there is. And either way that scares you all the time.
it’s those fucking firetruckambulancepolicecar horns.
Blaring their dicks straight into our ears, through our windows and walls and fancy head phones and televisions, just dicks blaring and bouncing all over the inside of all of us. Every time someone farts, or picks up the phone, which is basically the same thing.
And thing is, I’d want to kill myself,
but I kind of rather kill all of you first.
And then I think I am killing myself.