The sexes are divided. So is capital. All I could wish for is 86 floors of hot belief; I'm
a floater of 'cynicism,' gold insouciance, persona non barter. The whole thing just
Finesse augurs repression and destruction in one immaculate allegory.
And now the frontiers have all been urbanized. Each new batch bifurcated, bed-wetters,
cynics. Cynics are the dry numb ones hauled onto the arc of cleverness.
My ass is all about listening.
Jonathan stayed and worked with the new birds coming in, who were all "Could you be a
little more specific, doctor?" while they rested on the beach after a session of
folded-wing snap rolls.
Time to release the hounds. But I'll stop now. We'll soon restore the chaos.
(If you or I decry how ambivalent I am I miss the point, generally. On the other hand, I
get kind of overstimulated by stupid generalizations. I wouldn't know how to come down on
these vital issues.)
Do you like spiral staircases?
There is nothing like an emergent semantics to find your voice and produce your prosthetic
artifact (lack of despair).
Ultra blurry and anamorphic, some of the following is actually good. Sort of, I sing
Facts are a marketplace where figures are garbled when least derivative; ephemeral
objective content triumphs. It's kind of a snob racket. (CB)
I sing thusly, a battleswarm steps over and above the deadpan. Everyone's direction is
shifting, pasting in its genetic material in the scheme of the all-species inventory.
Around our nervous system distorts reality to emphasize changes in time and radial space.
We weren't orphaned, we just decided to pursue other interests
to get re-elected to you and we'll proliferate to here if I try, if you have the
confidence we pack -- we wiretap the secret you weigh (you get no credit for this) --
no ripped-off melancholy, no spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in, but here's a
substitution agreement containing you and me --
it's taken this long to read the gospel of wealth.
O to be bubble-footed in dark briefs!
or humming opera bouffe in jeans, preferring lunacy to kissing (ah, af, fa, ble), moaning
about diffusion at any cost to render your mouth a mess of slop,
this is for you now.