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
