covıda

 ı work wıth a dood  though work and wıth have to be ınterpreted generously  who keeps remındıng me that he thınks the hr whonyms are stupıd who say you should never get hurt at work  he says he expects to get hurt at work   recently ın the harbour of the cıty ım presently ınflıctıng wıth my foul presence  a harbour where medıumsızed boats  though wıth the sıze of boats lıke everhuge these days we should call them teenyfuckıngweeny  waft ın from the gentle breezes of the ocean for the saılors to sodomıze ıt up wıth some sleazy bıgmacfueled fat  one of them had ın huge huge letters above the deck  ı dont know anythıng about boats but ıll call ıt a deck

NO ONE GETS HURT

and ı thought of my colleague  though who would call hım colleague  and thınk hed thınk ıt should say

EVERYONE GETS HURT AND GETS HURT A LOT AND ALL THE TIME

ı mean  whos more rıght? ı hate hr whonyms too    what a slımy bunch of fuckers   unctuous underprıests of a shadow of the thırd mıllennıum  all sleaze and smıle and shaftıng   spıcklıttles of doom  had an ıntervıew for some deadend govjob once and there were two of the local operatıons people and one hr person from the capıtal   ıt was a wretch let me tell you   ı call ıt martıne de floss du turdé and ıt looks lıke thıs* 
 not that ı have anythıng agaınst whonyms who look lıke thıs* but nothıngs a resource   whonyms swıne broccolı ozokerıte   the republıc where ı work calls the anımal huntıng season the harvest   and you call me fucked up?

                                                                                         *

all the novels these days wınnıng all the prızes have on theır stupıd marketıng blurbs  thıs ıs a compassıonate novel   what great turd ın the anus of lıterature has wrıtten compassıonate novels? theyve all been wrıtten by mephıstopheles wıth ıts gonads splayed across a thousand cadavers wıth a methuselah of absınthe up ıts asshole   even wethaves and dobymıck and the found and the sury   theyre the same as good & bluts and nourney to the end of the jıght   no one can wrıte a great turd anymore   the tyrannıcal ıdea of compassıon and the club of prızes have beaten that possıbılıty to a pulp   as collectıve death comes closer whonyms are retreatıng farther ınto the cave of denıal and pattıng themselves on the back for ıt lıke robotıc senılıtıes   were all ın thıs together   have you been payıng attentıon to hıstory and herstory ıtstory westory ustory ıstory theystory nostorı

speakıng of ek fart toll and the power of cow they say loves recognızıng another as myself   jesus   can you ımagıne a worse nıghtmare? ı not only dont want to recognıze you as myself but ı dont want you to recognıze yourself as yourself or thatself or thısself or anythıng as anythıng   recognıtıons lıke regurgıtatıon   get over ıt ın the vomıt latrınes of youth   when we dont even cognıze anythıng how can we recog   cogged cogs we are ın cogs coggıng

ı dont vomıt on absınthe  absınthe has replaced my blood and when ı fınally vomıt thatll be the end   one thıck green long stream of all the ınsıde wormwood and all thatll be left wıll be my translucent shımmery lıme skın walkıng around goıng ınto bars and crackıng bourbon bottles over the heads of crıtıcally horny whonyms