diotima's hiroshima

taken from the lies of life by an ölder oped

we’re all sitting in the prostomium of one of those darling chalets you see in picture books and travel brochures and social medea porn and chatting pleasantly the way matricians and patricians do in minds that if they were twigged to different dipswitches and the engineer – if she isn’t fooling around with the assembly line robots in the doom closet – were paying attention instead of eliminating the money system would be debating the debaucheries of djuna’s solfeggio

we’re squished actually. those of us who wait. the baroness and lucky and simone and the billy quotes buff and maybe you if you weren’t so incarcerated in the privilege of the solitary confinement of your necrocoprophilia shoes

and the lady rot dohy no witt writes to the lord clamberpoo saying one of the many themes running through the play is the desire of two old tramps continually to relieve themselves. such a dramatisation of lavatory necessities is offensive and against all sense of british decency. all decency she says like slaughtering things from afar and using the blood to paint our teacups. all decency she says like regnal whippings in the Name of the Omintopent Ilghatmy. all decency she says like exterminating everything that doesn’t smell like my 38EE AR15 powderpuffs or pay for my 38EE AR15 powderpuffs and providing us citizens with these pretty pretty biscuits and ittybitty polkadotty pretty pretty cakes, my love    

it says to i when i’m at madison and chicken waiting for a cab to take me to the game or rather if we’re speaking honestly for once to another game a game came up to me and says – do you aim to blame the game on james, the dame or names? it’s not the same game i play a lame tame game. hah it says i can tell you’re one of those who’s done a voyage around your pataroom. lala. here’s your jab to take you to the turing hearse but only seen on chicken is a holdaring walking rope of witches, acephalous and grim, feet frenulum of fireflies, hands aristeia of uncharing crosses, gonads like dark virtue rousing the dead to floss their udders

i do not share with those in the foyer with me. all we have in common is our waiting and waiting is a language that does not need a speaking, only doing does the speaking and speaking’s peaking like this heat

liesmeremare to kakwaw in 6000 rps

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

the perscrutation of the lorgnette

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