To hell with situationists. One secretly wants fact checking. Hi, how’s it going?
We can’t say new and improved until there’s a personal hygiene information strategy.
There are two dabbling bitches in an adjacent field. Let’s scratch and test them.
Slim and teeming with desire between quotation marks, they welcome the intrusion. Still,
their apathy deepens.
To hell with meditations, middle distance, middle districts, stringent circles, forced
population movements, coercion of locals, curfews, lethal pressures.
The bible should be huge but why the big ruse? I was more interested when you started
talking straight about the irregular war, straight from the drift.
Someday I’ll puff on your reefer, its leathery carpet of loose ends.
Then swami will burst in upon the headmaster. What do you want? I’m not a mind reader.
Between hi and goodbye attention is paid to hair. Try our sex loss challenge. Say when.
What rhymes with layoffs? There’s a product on the loose. Travel well. Side effects could
The issues touched upon are the capital’s, the one in fragments. Any philistine can
applaud. But ours, right here, is a new city state of blinding (or binding) light.
I want to get married in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?
(When I can’t sleep I can’t dream.)
I promised you a ham for painting bombast. The cubicle’s in your head.
If you don’t keep your dream like a product you don’t get anywhere. Ask Caligari.
Let me finish the afterlife. The bright blue of January in the sewers.
(Sewers have their charm.) Alentejo blue, the looming sluice through the discomfort
zone, the din in the head. There, the oracle bones. As if all were saturated watching out
for huge snowy droves. I feel this absurd in your hold still shining through the milky
sheet. The dirty side of blind willow, scar tissue.
I dress left, way left, Mr. Ambassador. You lost me at bow-wow.
Erotic with a strong social conscience. Lantern jaw. Not a jaw, but a chin that extends
fuzzy almost as a lantern to the flab of the neckline. Right. A weak chin. No jaw. A
double chin. No character but a dark, cerebral dog.
In addition to his wife, Mr. Hoyle, there’s his pursuit of very naughty men and others.
Johnny designed himself as colorful, simply drawn, dark, cerebral, doglike. So he did
have character, despite his fanciful, perfidious mien and no jaw.
“I used to be a pussy man, a short-lived comedy of means,” remarked Johnny.
“I miss talking to her late at night.” His voice was scratchy. “There’s more shit I got to do now.”
Switching beard dyes, Johnny sat in the gray waiting for all the colors to fold in. The
occasion seemed sado-obvious and frustrated his pursuit of seven statuettes. “The others,
a number of them,” he explained. “I was never a good artist,” said Johnny. “But I have
some super friends,” pointing to his toy tie-ins with bright muscle shirts and go-bots.
When it’s really late he said he likes to play the KISS adaptation of Charlotte’s Web.
“There are those times when you need to cry,” he said.
In addition to his wife, Mr. Hoyle, Johnny now has a long penis (hued darker to cover his
lack of a chin) yet the new look was deemed incompatible with his ex’s gift for trying.
“Puss got the bots,” gushed Johnny. “Last year sometime.” He added, “I’d never do
another interview without my underwear.”