the perscrutation of the lorgnette

she and he and maybe it and i are waiting for the 1011 flying toast express to unterfür. we don't even know what approaches us she says we don't know how to sell or kill it for the black bat night has flown

but she looks like that world record for the longest courgette held by giovanni batista scozzafava of megaera balls and i gather around the table of the gossip of truth like a used gum salesmonkey or a euptoieta gertrudia and climb the ladder of rain, the rungs are sticky on my paws and as the lights go on the lights go off and i breathe from my mycelium like an apple in the dark or broken mirrors of complex souls or time that no longer fits in any calendar

i’ve given wholly up on the notion of directions she says i can’t seem to find me on the maps, i’ve been looking for language in words but can only find money and i have a dump i have to do. i call it xanadu. the dump i have to do

well as unkle god complex used to say – if you want a reverse engineered schpritzer flusharama go ahead … blink! … let it be done. and to quote the singing saw dada – so shall mama medea’s social media need mead

the vatics have got it you’ve got to admit

there’s a jewel or bitcoin in all the shit

i spoke that language once she says but i didn’t believe and now the one i speak i speak as it’s the kind that doesn’t need to be believed. and look. i see a hope of an announcement of the headbeams of the flying toast in the fog and it’s like we’ve always been in unterfür with its little pretty chalets and its really hugerissimo frankenturfers and its hypothalamus of whissy blirrings and knowledge shall increase like wicca medea follicles and its …

… i have a parable for us she says unkle god complex and ought ist ick are smelling the turdillaria while on a package tour in mankhurdgovandi and the latter abel says – there’s a. am a thanks was here. just be. brush. skwoœjn annie. hush

the flying toast isn’t coming. it isn’t coming like a politician or a polypolar molar avogadro constant. we’ve read the manifestos. we’ve read them whilst on the toilets and they’re foul. they smell like mite whale phontinental cilosophy. something’s coming and it looks like phasmatodea and they’re hemimetabolous and up our nostrils and it’s like that time bea blatto’s feeling dicty up at the opera in the back row of the balcony during one of those interminable chrysogangus wolfythanaboobilus mephistomo middle lash pompoosities

i like it she says i like the way they’re moving in my orifi like orpheus. why can’t we see i’d like to see like the bible does in texas but who inside would let me?

the vatics have got it you’ve got to admit

there’s a drool or witcoin in all the shit