Saturday, March 26, 2011

Krewly Taken Down

Watch this advancement. Two warriors faced off on a stage. Their movement can now be phaged into hold phase, frozen while the ages play out. In translucent view, sponsored by PharmSupply, we can appreciate organ failure up close. The passage of meals is just a faint, grainy yarn in the video yield over time. Limbs might disappear, but early on. Similar elapses have been projected over classic statuary in open climate evolves now approaching 3-4 millennia.

Special attention to facial response to slow-cook trauma makes one of our most popular "Side-B" features. With the remainder of all musculature frozen into your choice of carefully measured RoicPoze, you can watch intelligent, feeling countenance bravely ignore, laugh at, ridicule, question, rail against, pale before, scream in horror, suffer from, and finally, pathetically, surrender in dissolve to the Click of Time. And you thought life was "all about choices." Fool.

The simultaneous degradation of the individual fighters, the lively bravado going pathetically prunish at nearly the same rate in each, the temporary soaring, inspiring but ultimately crushing thumic rantalog, each one hardly even unique enough in most respects, we find, to call himself a worthy n' wholesome opponent: often it was two organisms who shared a single host tearing at their other halves, or the fruit of disparate matriarchy rolled out the same chink, but in the end they're krewly taken down just the same, system by system.

Jan Janzdaad, Lead Wiccadocca
Recreative Clinics

Qtd in: Old-School Telemetry Without Regard to Budget
PharmSupply UP, Highchank

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Jan and Her Dad, Jan Janzdaad


Here are some of the questions I've been promising. When you say things like "I don't know how to be a daad," it makes me want to slap you very hard on the face. You think your existence is optional even while you live. Or is it mine that could clinch the diff? If I die before you it will add and not subtract from what you are. Now I'm telling you: grow up. You must answer me as best you can and not be silent out of pride of being proven wrong one day and marked as such in someone's registry.

1) What is our intelligence relative to others?
2) What are the primal and seconal reasons for our current economic standing?
3) Are we less or more worthy the more or less we fight for our stature?
4) Who did you trust and now who brings you sorrow.
5) How can you help me carry honor in our name?
6) Who did you love, and who loves you.
7) How am I weak and strong; please don't make me vomit your diplomacy.
8) Now clearly describe your standards for satisfaction with me; if all you can say is "to be happy," you shall be stricken hard in the face until it's forthcoming your honesty.

Night time find me dangled in volcano mouth by crane bill; moneylenders at the edges hanging ten, perched with lawyers, dressed health providers. I can't be civilized enough to pay even my krill, but then I recall the swarms at Denver Airport in brand new leisure apparel, total value not more than 50 peck per rack. If by lifestyle you mean down with sport and a fleece fetish, the free wing of horniness in a brine of marriage, the smell of beer suds and baby oil, a family who dance to TV commercials and nest in a church's love steeple, how important do you think life is?

9) Can I use your formulas to become rich without endangering mankind.
10) Where are the code books and lab support rolodexies?
11) Are we predisposed to resist more radiation in less time?
12) How are man's real expectations linked, if at all, to a Moral Compass?

Monday, March 21, 2011

Phages' tears

When she raised her hand in the classroom that day, now therz a statue of it on the Pee Lawn. Because the riot that she started stung with the sun all afternoon, and the placement of the security garters, we speak of "the revolution that smelled of urine." At a number of historically numbered perimeter set points, called washes, a type of humanoid called phages, sitting in trench coats on the curb holding their heads, still serve to mop up, with their tears, any residual contaminant.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Why aren't you some kind of freak?

Why aren't you some kind of freak? How can it be that outta-all the beautiful chicks and dudes I've seen, you strike me as sumthin reelie spesh? You fall well within the heart of the realm of attractiveness, but your exceptionality makes you particularly memorable and commands an emotional response more sweet and richer than Caramel Dream Swirl, chahl.

How can I even unnerstan your language? If your tongue is the dearest, hottest live wire ever, wouldn't the creole stink on out beyond its cipher? Wouldn't yor existence compel matter into a steamy mass of shame over centuries of labor, generations of real flesh babies whose trajected paid-fers wd always undermount the lots we'd get of creating major ideas of tiny observations?

How can it be that you would become a lier out so much farther and me so conventional while having been your Discoverer?

Friday, March 18, 2011

Cooling center

I'll never forget what my very first Spanish teacher confided in me after many many sessions. I had signed up in hopes of intercourse with a busboy at the taberna in the basement of my workplace. You think I've got cheap furniture. She told me that all of hers was folding. Folding furniture. And she had a scar. That was visible during our meetings. But that wasn't all, not just the scar. There was... some facial... displacement. Not by birth. And muscle wasting.

I simultaneously translated the following from an instructional video tape during one of our lessons:

Once global warming sets in, I'll have to take my babies to a cooling center.

Then the señora wept into her dyed cotton crepe jacket.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Epistemes, plotz

we were already 14 when we acknowledged openly
the pointlessness of new friendships with strangers.
if you've often had occasion to judge the world to
be a troubling spot, then you are more oft than not
open to off or awkward approaches, epistemes, plotz.

Everything phatic or rhetic that you spew nau
will be logged entry to my journal o' knowledge,
assuming sumthin as heinous as our love
should be cock-copied down and legislated after,
in whut, clown clinics and drag universities.

You may imagine, in erotic fitz, an oubliette
Where the speech act seeps out, posteriatum,
to where ya' half claim paterfilia to the fevered
perconesias and todonoscums of yr offsprings
and their pigs they call husbands.

Sylvia and Tom
"We're thinking-complicit."

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Whore of abstinence

There seems to be a tiny niche for someone to get away with this booshia, for men who are let's face it trying to shore up their years, yet still showing up ever more popping it new, as in styling moves, as in risky, nothing to lose.
Here's what you do: you say I admire your assertiveness. If only
I could be like you I'd end up the stud of this establishment or even including all the organic matter that surrounds us. My daily order, personal venues, would be irreversibly turned inside-outz.
But I'm a local girl. I have a responsibility to this my watering hole and community, self, a kind of watching, nurturing bitch energy that will go so far as to walk you to your car and let you kiss me.
**Barkeep, I help laborers in the tourism industry map out and monitor quadrants of their payload, responsibility. In turn, I hope they'd be honest if Someone ast if they'd seen me lately.**

"Some nights I'm gifted hot, and I can't waste it on the oracle dispenser. I tell the outta towners I'm just there for some human con-tack, but I start receiving earnest knee organ just the same. This new technique can nevertheless put off a century of dog days for you know who you are, baby. I will be welcoming and loving in part because I know you are on the way."

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Gau Gau Bata Utha

 Gau Bata Utha

Come out your towns, where you camping!
Beat the face of your land, come out grrlz.
Got an eyebrow pencil or a crayon, bring it on out.
If your instrument plays, don't be ashamed.
You know your tool is welcome baby, come out!
If you are not packing, you can come out and SING!

Translation by Sylvia

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Men's gene

We always believed in the true horrors uncovered of popular feminism, a product of a guilded horror age. While it was so easy to remember what had just happened, not really knowing what to say, it was also easy to remember sunshine and chintz, keeping movement frontal, forward and advanced. But when you see horror over there, you take a second start when you look anew around you. Humans aren't who we thought they were, or whom we made them out to be. Not least of all men. Disappointing. But most of all women: worth celebrating, mourning. But then you get a pendulum. Pig/ saint. Wench/ king. Magician/ witch. Biology itself has been a perpetrator, but all to men's credit as conscientious super-mammal. Created poorly for the modern world, he resorts to a hamster wheel. A hamster cranks out worlds of it's own dark little oblong worldz. In a flashbulb, all tyranny was rotten, harsh. Even eager embra co-dependers were seen as vortice-eyed followers of the missile-phallus. It was Men's gene. Fems had to prove that they had it too.

By Phyllis
Freelance Free-Weekly Filler Filer 4U