we were vibing unstoppable down industry street.
our jaws sprouting rhubarb shat on by hooded crow.
pass film studios in ruins.
long golden violet grass swept over.
bowel city, intestine city, cloaca town.
munter and munted
in the bloated gassy bowels of it.
drowning in fast-rising day.
that sudden early summer heat dilated all our spirits and digestive tracts. weve room for everything, all necessities and gratuities and annuities too maybe. and then you have still even hours over to strip off and roll in the grey dust like a slowed-motion sparrow and watch the warm jiggling bodies from down there.
come eat this ammonia mud w/ me, come munch these wet dandelion greens. who needs power stations, power, stations, or cups. we do have limits, but no ones ever worked out where they are. we will live off swan shit and moisture sucked from sour wild berries.
the insects built world is the tree flowers flower, the insect is the insects worlds flower, the animal is the insects flower, and we are the animals flower, so the flower of the flower of the flower of the flower, plus the flower is the tree flower of the tree that is the tree flower of the earth flower, which is the flower, one of the universes flowers, and the tree flower is the insects universe.
universe: gotta be flower of sth.
and includes 13 vision realization programmes covering a range of
beer and champagne bottles that ring the eternal yoga mat.
i bled for you, i wheezed for you. i bled and wheezed also for anyone who happened to be passing by on industry street in cloaca town and was in need of a bit of bleeding and wheezing.
i can see yr trying to judge
me, can scry it be
-tween yr bloodcurdling screams—
but :: yr doing it wrong
the tides of the body
in the desert
-fire of the present
the repetitions: must they become infinite for things to change, or if they become infinite does that mean no things can change.
song says, we are in a loop, sorry, they call it a bar which is confusing, lets give it a hue, hues, goo.
sacrifice your leg to get in. you dont need it. its a car after all. there are freeways. fuel is cheap.
difference is pain, but thank fucking
christ for difference.
the lightning shedding tears
at its own passing
the coal btw our teeth
and that city
thats been glassed;
take the letter written by another, then write over it directly, extending and reshaping it into a larger, different letter. you can do it! let yourself be inspired, dare to imagine another, wholly unrelated letter, press harder, make the ink heavier, thicker, go over it twice, three times, leave a mark in the paper, act on your fantasy, watch a t become a d, magic.
now repeat for all remaining letters in the priceless manuscript.
this is how you will do your part in extending the fixed axialated rumour we must all disappear into upon dying.
clouds turn in the sky like raptors, circling.
proof we live in a funnel.
on the promenade
that runs thru
the dust storm
we the (sour bruised
unripe) fruits of that devastation
youll find us. were near the awful techno.