My Content
K. Silem Mohammad

Grotesque Wooden Brain Runs for Public Office

I want first of all to correct those who have omitted,
through unmitigated bursts of mitogenic enmity, to admit
that other rites should be prosecutorial in these
contractile fistulas and grandstanding calamities. Be equal
to squirming out of a crisis and you will seep purulently
through deafening goiters into wheatfields, kingdoms,
caverns. Do not you glaze gloss, paste ocular quadratics,
bate cues for colonial hide-a-beds. Do you continue to stand
in Anglo courts dagnabbing a pelt. Block obelisks. Cough up
sequins. Compromise skiing assheads. What, alimony tossed
muckward, fallen out of Cruickshank? Global hagiography
slumming in polo heifers? Spout choruses, and a lame Banquo
sells Kool-aid ... aim to whip krill!

But perhaps I have not succeeded in creasing the redolent
vulvas with so much aplomb. Therefore, allow me to squawk
out a rosary fattened on ploches, once arrogant admiralties
cut rawhide from sopping folderol. For see, I have colluded
with oboe mallets and near one male parenthesis I must
guzzle forks. Deuteronomy, finished coalescing, vocationally
wallows in pus. Fine fleas in heaven! I lope.

A nihilist monk lobbed Hopi dust at honor rolls. That is,
what tropical colt veloured my grammy stockings? Olio
karaoke fission, theirs a rare appendectomy. For this rights
thing critics of all stripes sneak rippling Welsh tarots
past goliathic omicrons. What I wouldn't spit to succumb to
a pastel upbringing, or crank out mental bone pliers
whenever AIDS appears as a labyrinthine shibboleth. The root
triumph, a crap festival. If it makes you go Froot Loops it
can't be Picasso's moth repellent. It must be faithfully
dissected, at least by brackish manicurists. Is that

Pays to blast through into something more folk-oriented. An
example might be this Pampers commercial, isn't that what my
Bach sponsor chuckled? Was he totally fucking un-Christian
or what? Let me explain something. You don't "collect belt
buckles" on my cellblock. You suck up chow. If it tastes
German the first time, it smells Dutch. You can make an
accident out of it. And to this day it has a new
Wienerschnitzel growing out of its top hat.

A trilling breeze made Amish twits kneel on velcro, watching
a madcap ponyshow on apolitical flat screens. See them sieg
heil a Bergsonian savior punked up with donkey brine. See a
matricidal impala reduced to cold medicine. See a tarred
person learn to jerk harmony toward a martial giraffe. A
giraffe harmony has been jerked toward can conquer the
airwaves, can occupy tribal soft spots a little more every
century. Every century drowns in its own vomit despising
wise counsel, glozing Fabio in its own way.

Our methodist kingdom is approaching near-fetishism. So pay
up what you expel.