or a meglamaniac
or god all over your face-
an orgy of information is exchanged
but nothing is scene.
every one backs away from you with cocktail trays in hand.
it's discouraging but you deal with it in a typical way that ends
with a 120,000 dollar a year salary but unfortunately,
everyone that dies around you
has a heaven to go to.
everything changes
for ten minutes,
if you could say things to yourself with a straight face and in an objective way it would come out like this,
you are a cunt like entity devoid of any real quest for satisfaction, the complete toxic event looming in the sky like guilt with five studded questions that ask themselves over and over as the negatively charged ion super splices into a seeded cloud of temperature passion for climate controlling your anger in cumulus poutsthis changes nothing, it just sits there in the air like 3000 years.
vonnegut slowly nietches our concerns into a long trail of slack eyed movement, rearranging our brautigan all over the back wall of plath’s vagina as it's dug out a pile of soul parts by the lost memory of sexton’s throaty voice like robots clocking back and forth inside the deconstructed molecules of whitman’s mad soul.
a star machine creeps out and palahnuik’s silky hate just melts your laugh track into a bending statue of truth so raw it’s hard to vomit, instead, you collect stats that turn your invisible into a venn diagram with most of you inside the middle parts.
it’s a fully detached uterus causing hysteria,
and we can name that tune in three notes, spin the wheel till our universal studio is a sparkling blur given to the ether in the form of a quiz question that must be answered in the form of a question which secretly sums up every single frown on this entire planet that isn't wrapped around a corpse's face which is still the imprint moment of release reflecting the last time any of us
REALLY
ate a cone of ice cream like it was the whole day.
