diotima's hiroshima

taken from the lies of life by an ölder oped

we’re all sitting in the prostomium of one of those darling chalets you see in picture books and travel brochures and social medea porn and chatting pleasantly the way matricians and patricians do in minds that if they were twigged to different dipswitches and the engineer – if she isn’t fooling around with the assembly line robots in the doom closet – were paying attention instead of eliminating the money system would be debating the debaucheries of djuna’s solfeggio

we’re squished actually. those of us who wait. the baroness and lucky and simone and the billy quotes buff and maybe you if you weren’t so incarcerated in the privilege of the solitary confinement of your necrocoprophilia shoes

and the lady rot dohy no witt writes to the lord clamberpoo saying one of the many themes running through the play is the desire of two old tramps continually to relieve themselves. such a dramatisation of lavatory necessities is offensive and against all sense of british decency. all decency she says like slaughtering things from afar and using the blood to paint our teacups. all decency she says like regnal whippings in the Name of the Omintopent Ilghatmy. all decency she says like exterminating everything that doesn’t smell like my 38EE AR15 powderpuffs or pay for my 38EE AR15 powderpuffs and providing us citizens with these pretty pretty biscuits and ittybitty polkadotty pretty pretty cakes, my love    

it says to i when i’m at madison and chicken waiting for a cab to take me to the game or rather if we’re speaking honestly for once to another game a game came up to me and says – do you aim to blame the game on james, the dame or names? it’s not the same game i play a lame tame game. hah it says i can tell you’re one of those who’s done a voyage around your pataroom. lala. here’s your jab to take you to the turing hearse but only seen on chicken is a holdaring walking rope of witches, acephalous and grim, feet frenulum of fireflies, hands aristeia of uncharing crosses, gonads like dark virtue rousing the dead to floss their udders

i do not share with those in the foyer with me. all we have in common is our waiting and waiting is a language that does not need a speaking, only doing does the speaking and speaking’s peaking like this heat