dear peoclaptra

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dear terocalpa

here you are representing the dead and powerful and here i am or something is representing or depresenting the living and patapowered and i thought i’d take this opportunity (for what else do we call it?) to write you

yesterday you texted me when i was looking for coconut oil in a confused and droopy supermarket – an exercise that was strangely doomed as all i found was a mute argentinian amid shoppers so thick i felt i was navigating a dense forest of moving trees in a chromatic and replete sheol – and i was too immersed in thinking that mysticism has always been godless mysticism – it’s just the mystics in a goded dominant culture had to – to varying degrees – encode the godlessness in god (or rather a false godlessness) and the reduction of this apparent necessity without (perhaps naturally) any seeming reduction in the mystical orientation and possibly even an increase due to factors requisite and maybe calamitous has led or is leading to a state (or rather flow) of a remanufactured mysticism often (perhaps quite appropriately) called by other names many of which we’re clueless of to respond

you texted art’s the only true religion as it’s the only one not stupid enough to attempt to agree with itself and who am i to disagree?

you texted compensation has many faces and i prefer to get compensation through void that way you’re always getting compensated

you texted humans are destroying their home and as many others as possible and so themselves through a spiritual defect they’re so committed to they can’t acknowledge it

you texted i never want to work but want language to work in my place

you texted a little story about while and gall in the resistance

you texted news of eightyone shades of shade and a composting so intricate and vast even the most accomplished gardener merges with it

you texted of the hallucinations that reality conjures and their holographic embeddedity in reality

you texted of doubt and desolation and beauty and nonchalance

you texted of running away to find freedom and only finding new forms of slavery and this not negating the moving not because moving's wisdom but because moving’s moving

and no wonder i didn’t find the coconut oil or respond and the argentinian was mute and you’re dead and presents with or without prefixes still live

the bamazon is urning

titties as big as constellated bears bare themselves to the hard ass of the borealis these bark and durning days and eyinfunjowo kasimaawoo faderera joooda aanuoluwakiishi mofeoluwa ododo knocks on my chump like an outhouse and speaks to my dessicated brain of shaven trees and lands on them like raffles and my cranium a fishbowl into which the hand of the mastos reaches to pluck the losers

come with me big titties to the fowndall of the world and we shall board the last vamoose to wherewhatfor&why, come with me constipated sky and be my luggage in the overhead compartment of my gonadian tealights oh riesling and syrah syrah  oh muddleplump and termites

this in case you missed it is the annual meeting of the shareholders of the multinational stateless charter company tax haven corporation dink and i’m pissilla queen of desserts and kiss my transwit in the kisser, let us call us to disorder

and i deer hairshoulders am janabus jonabus blabibus boobibus your chief execrative offaler and here are the charts and the futures and the big big lines and the big big arrows and follow me

and i venison umbles am kratz kunkl your chief funebrial offaler and here are the farts and the sutures and the big big signs and the big big barrows and follow them

and that is the meeting and go home and fuck yourselves and i’m pissilla and kiss my kisser

and i lie like a ventriloquist on the dummy of the earth and open my tiresias to the lost and black expanse and stars explode like copporn and my latrine talks like genealogies and in what jamapit are the sanities, invest in me you wannabes and fey syrah syrah  shall we burn

we lie like asswobbly line somniloquists with widgets in our sockets and forklifts in our ears on sodden regulations and sloshed centuries under black expense and stars implode in follywould and my privy takes up its bed and walks come kawaya kami and johnny cash is here with jesus and fey selah selah and superclusters shall we burn

journey to mecca

my most putrescent sapoo, what have you learned this summer for as we know from those who say it’s all about learning opportunities it’s all about learning opportunities

we’re on a journey to mecca and the genders inside are jostling for a view

that sounds practical

i only want orgies

everything else bores me

yes, we realize you’ve spent 18 weeks alone in a privileged green shoe bouncing around in the tiny confines of your mind instead of bouncing around in the tiny confines of society but could you make some attempt to communicate in the normal ways so that our unreaders at home or in their best friend’s spouse’s gonads can take at least some little inspirational morsel into their inspirationstarved lives for as those who say it’s all about inspirational morsels say it’s all about inspirational morsels

and i go to the mall of love

and doktor huphen gogol gonococci reads from the proper of names

and i hear what i’ve always heard

trade talk’s always the same

one of the things that strikes our unreaders is – and i quote here from a recent tweet from a city councillor in duh loins in i-owe-ah! – sadoo pooper doesn’t poop the way the rest of us nonpoopers poop i mean i’m all for diversity like everyone but i believe in only one poop

allāhu akshiva eloha budammad brasus chrimin krichri ganebar

you know yesterday i took the zoomwoosh gooberfire 000 to the castles of tan-zany-ah! and was installed as queen of air conditioners, this made me think a thought of somethink else for yesteryear’s witchhunts are palehunts next to ourhunts

i only want pierogies

everything else galls me

like republican presidents

and mystic dissidents

and especially geometric beauty

i’m pure like a leporidae or a morogoro and i wait for the 1533 lagomorpha linguini 2311 to pull in and the sun like stale peach jello rise also into the smog of an impossible deli and i’m not immune to such blather, to statements that smile on our nonexistent selves, a sentiment if i weren’t a beached himbo has been expressed in erstwhile dictions now lounging in the southsouthwest speciesneutral washroom on the lower level by the apotropaic stand which hamsa pazuza ofuda’s been tending since a clad of boncubines on a marshmallow train to nowhere dine on time on time in chancrous calendars, the clairvoyant horse sees it there, the clad on time on time and signals the girl to a forbidden ride and rocks like sansoo descending from a sanbo kyodan retreat as we sing the sad hit i’m as litigious as a torn lagavulin ligament / let us sue zen with suisen / while reading the fourth abyssament / to be dead  to the fundament  to be dead

i think we’ve lost the thread

i’m impure like vitreloy on a hot yen roof or alicia & bobi as they beat one other to the tunes of top 50 love and i wait tomorrow in delhi in zero visibility in a jumper that doktors emeriti violated after ethics class and the moon like used titanium in arasmius oreades flops below the horizon like a regent of the green faerie on assiduous assignment for a lime tram to pull up and i’m not really like the phantoms of myself today and i can’t listen to your language which unruly truly sounds like animate shits ferociously battling to be the day’s top turd and there is no softness or gentleness in this world the flies sing on an ark of the future all kingdoms end in dreams to take me to a shrine in shenzhen to godforsaken gods

and that’s been the summer folks and if you don’t believe it don’t believe it. we’re going to mecca, all of us and the genders are jostling for a view