in a money youth white human neurotypical technology male name cis exotatic supremacist culture how does one eat one’s marinated tofu?

trains are dribbling down my face like echidna enchiladas and his hair hangs seeming to the thonged throngs who drink from the callous chalice in raucous exaltation from chilled craniums in celluloid sexuality and mothlit metaphor that just pharmaceuticals hold the gavel of the hanging

i look at her and can’t believe she’s not saying i’m not one of those fake anthromonogists who goes in with nothing on but the maille of credentials but an anthropolygist, a many going in with an appearance of insiders

a strong man she says a poutine of the boot a pinxing of the sickle a rump of the dump a bray of the tsoris a tussleini of white linguini is what we need to leap before the look yet what jumps before the brain is not this but those who overdose from microdosing the rains of the litter the runts of bitters, not the nalia of margarinia or the utter of gutters but the non compost mantis of the coca, the rounddown of the sated glyph

it is hard. it is hard like justice without its just. and cold. the gods of nothing giggle on their stylites, these fakirs of Eternal Merdia on the beach of their vertigo. we die like ytterbium, babies of knowledge, teratogens of the earth       

he is like she says was she says like a pataphor in a cafeteria playing chess with confessing dragonflies on a medieval beach. he lives as the dead do, enlarging. neither an outdividual nor an unter an uber and hardly an in he clung (or clings or will - oh caps and malendars!) to prypositions like one of those rafts you see in hallucinogenic ridere risus that we irrisorize, push over earth’s jagged aged edge like a polypsych

and i wonder if her encomium is just baked laudanum, a societal sweet we tweet as dessert with neither precursor nor nutrient and we are left unfilled like souls at a table of a great unbanquet where banquo’s burnt toast spreads over our jam like honeybees and who are we to tell a story of any ends?

you’re full of alice and malice she says mallets and millets and those metamorphosizing argots of the very catholic order diphtheria. who would want disorder by their homes? and who would take the unity that isn’t inside like a what’s it like to be a brat? i’m full of questions of the text and my sex rises like elohim on spacecrafts of doomed wonder

and i can’t tell whether she speaks of me or the keyboard talking on my shoulder like a djinn high on history and i think of asking her but what would be the use in these communicative times? i say the rocket achery hurts my axes, pocket vituperators pain my nidi like a flying violence of masses and asses. and who talks? who among the haruspicina would talk before the angel in qiryath chutsoth?