Sunday, 1 November 2009

Funny World #9

Watching the insect band through insect eyes. I start to fit in. Writing my way out of a paper bag. The church needs a cone through it's velvet windows just like we thought about the other day.

We are becoming increasingly anion in our mutism. Residual carrier bag in your watery hands, picking up the fragments you charge my oily guts with vex. All I'm doing is trading days for the night. At some point in the near future you will chew off your own arm. My head becomes a lift full of strangers, chewing the fat and gas. On and on and on (repeat to fade).

He is most definitely under the bed, scratching his head, smoking the dead leaves. I turn his pockets inside out to find a cathedral. Could you please be more ambiguous.

She is full of vibes, vibes coming out of her trousers! This will knock back progress, three weeks, maybe even four, depending on the hemisphere.


ten a penny, isosceles or equilateral, black or white. While stocks last.

Yesterday I had a beak. Pregnant words that need aborting immediately. Everyone should be aborted at least once. Rape is not a noun.

Surprise sex is always best during the festive season, she says, in between the now and then. All I ask from you is to invert the night sky so the stars are black and the space between will bind us beautifully. Give me two's on the brain mate and I'll give you a biscuit. Stroking your small intestine, I await the vibration that never came.

Like a film that changes genre intermittently you continue to beleaguer me. Opening the door and falling to the floor, a physical representation of my infatuous itch. Wedged in the wall she bludgeoned my face as a term of endearment, like a rose scented bullet, tickling verbs and nouns.

What a waste of words.

Hopefully some may have been wedged down the back of the settee for you to find. Walking in the wrong room her pale face and rabbit eyes point me in the right direction. The beginning of the endlessness. spilling the guts of a cigarette I watch it burn. Spitting pretty patterns, weaving verbal shapes, I can see it all but I remember nothing. I'm hoping my venetian ways hold sway for a while longer, just long enough to make amends. I seem to remember eating her hands and being kissed by a giant, a grandiose case of mistaken identity or so I've been told.

Some nights we plunder the same crumbling empires.

I like it when you scream.

You're mouth looks like a dilapidated building where inside, I climb up stairs forever.

I'm sure it's buried inside a great vat of drugs and harmony. Now that you know, just fucking do something, something else. My mask can't hold this weight forever.

She's inside, I'm against the bricks, entertaining the tarmac with my bravado. This will last for three days and no longer.

We will wait curiously and ask what the three types of milk were. The people are crying out for something they understand, but I won't give it to them easily. No one knows, yet everyone has an opinion.

I was born with this prosthetic conscience, leaving my mouth with crippling fingers. I woke up this morning and didn't care anymore for this allegiance. You can only be a certain type of individual, but it turned out that my mouth couldn't say it. My ears feel like prostitutes and I am almost definitely dead.

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