creature o. habit

in winter there are the vat dyed suede house mocs,
the wide-slatted leatherette deck thongs still warm.

if you take up the rugs you mt as well chnge house
so where you put dn proverbial hat is always fresh.

but thn yr left with living tissue as the only constant,
an dwen it starts answering back you want 2 slap it.

Donna

simulation v. reflection

God must have chosen me to be the one to see the beauty of reality:
seven vestal hurricanes, a golden pestilence and a billion hot and hun
-gry begging mouths awaiting in the halls of kingdom fracking come.

The way he makes a give and take is by hanging my tits out the win-
dow and walking by and saying you've a pornographic face, Dolores.
Whenever I'm doing cartwheels across this victory grass o him n his,

be certain to listen while I grunt out the hydrolic parts that drain energy.
Some say there exists a continual mechanism that can be discovered or
invented that would perpetuate the cycles of joy and ascendance, amen.

by Ken

Noon End

Boatman to the underworld, we can value yor perspective.
Remember tho you will never speak for the main stream.
You are tubed between over and outer realms, respectively,
So how could you aspire to be seal of the land, our bubble?

Galleon after galleon of crude, unleaded wall walkers,
Middlebrow conformists to venalism, hiders: they're
Your clan, down in the crossing lanes, border surfaces.
They say when universes they touch, it only means bangs.

Your breath, then, is everything even death cannot digest,
Something that will never be compressed and born again.
Yr word is precious in the finer markets they call perverse.
It takes a special kinda stud with a steady punty and blow

To take on what you've got already and just fuckin' row
With no attempt to show us how to buzz about our targets
Or weigh a lamb, a daughter, in some zero-fault vacuum;
Time for souls to find you at the noon end of a pendulum.

Pillow Talk

The Chama on "Pillow Talk"
with Phyliss

I am a primitive, an illiterate, yet I have a place because my work is an organic function and not everyone can pass this stuff.

Everything you produce looks like a bad and pornographic Degas, a motel-room El Greco if you're lucky.

I could be the gal who stencils red and black diamonds on the doors of the suites.

You've seen enough to know it all just makes you tired, and it's easier to just paint and drink.

Drink and paint.

Exactly.

Then why am I so goodlooking?

That's how you get away with it.

You're wearing a Timex, aren't you?

I beg your... yes, why?

Its ticking is about to give me an epileptic fit. Can we slip it between the mattresses?

[Slipping] You'll never be All-Chank because of this essential torpidity, the contempt for consensus or... regard...

You are beginning to understand my powers. They do not lie in rhetoric, sadly, nor in representation. I am a bloody wicca bitch. Can't you see. Your tongue is coiled around my clit.

*mphrmph*

Rattlesnake of a Timex

I looked out at Juniper's shadows of ears on the sand,
a Peace symbol. While other dogs might freak out, or
want to always stay in, he found a place he had sniffed
well, a shallow but wholesome place, where he could r
-est in his own skins until summer came. Juniper, a st
-eady berry, you unfold to me each day yor surprises.

Dr. Thong