you only see the caterpillar once

 

sheou calls it like it is shey says and what it is isnt much like anything

and then theres the calling what about that 

what about it

whats it like

its like the it i suppose callings just another it isnt it

when you reach the geezer class and develop wattles whats left to do but drink and be abused

theres suicide thats always good to kill a day

wanna sing the suicide song

we sang it yesterday

if you were told lifes as boring and small as it is when you were young what would you have done differently

the very essential quality of being young is a radical incapacity to believe that

the adult tasks to make life as small and boring as possible ie make life what it isnt then enforce this artifice on everyone as early and efficiently as possible and devote collective and individual life to pretending not just that this is what life is but what it must be

wattles though arent they nascent antennae designed to receive messages from the holy ones of the farnear

i like coupling with strangers on crowded metro platforms it makes me feel as if i might have something to say no not as if i might have something to say but that the something i dont have to says understood

a tall order for a short species

each impression we leave in another memorys like an alien artifact randomly stumbled upon and occasionally gathered and set on a mantle as some object of incomprehensibility thats shellacked in words so opaque who could see anymore the incomprehension and so the only life thats left us is to litter other minds as much as possible and this wholesale collective rabid pollution is civilizations present work

just yesterday i was at shinjuku waiting for the e to kasumigaseki and a midenarch with a pet dassie i believe to this day quite firmly was an interstellar alien with powers immense and indescribable and our lusticles so large and mutual before you could say natanovich paenungulata strugatsky i was being magnificently humped against some middle manager of the sony group corporation syndicate conglomerate kabushiki gaisha i knew she was a sonyist from the perfume and the magazine who couldnt do anything about it really considering theres nowhere to move and we all just shuffle together like that onto a train with the midenarch and i doing our very best to maintain the rhythms under such constraints and even the middle manager perhaps im imagining rubbing with us an inexplicable edoian rushour 3some im still convinced amitābha expressly sent this visitation for the very task of penetrating my μουνί to hitherto undiscovered meatal pouchy pleasures which ill be blunt are even now astrally reverberating in the lechery of my saturated underpants

the wattles a gadget that makes the internet look like a chamberpot for crickets the folds alone of its syntaxre so sophisticated just listen to this ive come up with this theory its a device really even a protocol that will tune the wattles natural receiver functions to such frequencies each data centre so to speak the body of course will have become a repository of vibrations so fully spectral communication as we know it 

why youre ruining a perfectly splendid masturbation session with your insane speculations

why dont you take your smelly loser underpants and stuff them in the face of that hamburger waiting for the q train with hedgefunds for a brain and nfts for a heart

your relentless pedantic conceptualizations are stillbirths from some unterslime extinction

your underpants are the scourge of an insectogarchy that might exist if only

and she unzips him and takes out his obsolescence like a time capsule and drops her pants and underpants like a matryoshka heavy with memory and sticks out her globbed satellites with mission and procedure and guides him toward the dirty hole of love and the trains zipping by are great messengers of tautology and buried screams and they go at it two warriors of meaning and she hollers alienations our unity and he communications the new babylon and the sun rising on the morning commute a rusty mistake on the squeals and anxieties of a race without end or purpose and he pulls out and the santorum pools on the floor scents of an unmapped transit and cums on a scurrying junior executive and she laughs without remorse or delight and wipes her ass with a nearby overcoat and crawls to a corner and sings the suicide song alone