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
