mad tichalak

here we are – i and i and all the others – on a platform of fog and the display says someone says that someone says (though how anyone can read it who can say or also read) the next one’s in nineteen

mad tichalak’s had a heart attack and it’s dropped its dissertation

here we are – the siffleux and the zazarappi – in a digital display and the conductor says (though no one’s seen one here for ninety years) get out of there you bagbags

mad tochalok talks like a cuckold cock and its tresis theel is pipping

here we are – she and him and none and them and it – in a concession stand in big mister chew big fudges and we waiters munch in terpen time and the next one’s in nineteen

mad tackulik drops its cited dick in a faculty of footnotes

here we are – you if you weren’t in manufacture – on judgments so poorly engineered the conductor calls committees in geneva twaddling in its claptraps

mad tuckuluk on knees and hands groping for its chakras

here we are – and why are they still counting – on platforms of babbleuffionalities and it’s way way past nineteen and the conductor’s drunk and dead and we’ve eaten all the fudgy siffleux

mad techelek’s become a wreck of nanocons and oxyoughtens and drops its conurbations

here we are – i and why and weren’t and it and some remnant zazarappi – nineteen and the conductor gone – we’ve reached the dream and per the texts the dream’s the one inside it

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