liesmeremare to kakwaw in 6000 rps

or decant the ass cant

and he laughs although the suffering flies as it and they look askance telling in the omniscience of an imminent oblivion that he only laughs on the autocoprophagus of an idea. he laughs hong and lard like coconut oil and seraphim honk in hell like fop tifty runes and the days go by like chopsticks. they go by and i do not watch the watches nor do i keep the donjon

and they’ll go up she says they’ll rise like ass cant’s intrasexionullity and they’ll go up like the concepts of concept and theories shall save us from our wins

and something in my demanufactured anteflababellum drives a sign into some vacant lot that reads as if it were steered by a junior church coatcheck clerk at a convention for unknown demonologists  we’ve been here before  but i know it means she talks like nostradamus in a deprivation tank, she talks with a coterie of her antiselves as if they’re heretical blueberries and i laugh again for laughing’s spiritual pus squeezed on our scrags of inderision

we are tired of traveling she says and transport anyway’s just a passarola of pendulent derelicts under a cabal of dumpsters in a city of tangling dodgems on a precipitatory charred map abandoned in a smutty rusty pail tumescent with ripped fetid sartorials and infested destroyed toys in a barricaded closet in a lesser garret in a perplexed bodily soul tottering somewhere on a dilapidating head

we don’t even know what we’re laughing at we sing in raunchy phelonions and oppida of acedia, we sing –

we don’t even know what we’re laughing at

we don’t even know what we’re for

our ubersexes are unionizing

and the gasset boat’s at the door

please come today dear tepidities into the maasai mara with aunti udder and count the cladograms of topi taurotragus tagus topos. that’s not right she says aunti udder the answer isn’t upper aunti go to the back of the game and take off your ypapantis and repeat the idiot catechism until you cum in the papal umbilicus

and why are the antelopes dying?

and are they dying for me?

and if i go to heaven

will there be any antelopes to see?

i read the anthro comedy and it isn’t funny. i take the elevator way way somewhere to paradiso and only find soiled photos of bonobos. i’ve gone by train and brain to suicide and the seaside and all i’ve seen is a window of dreams in nautical twilight in a thought of laughter in strange reserve