Yard Fulla Bullhedz

This yard held promise, yet
it's fulla bullhedz an stink c-
-abbage. Dogs trot announc
-ing their pleas, half hoping
not to feel the extra glee of
pierced paw pad n' extrusi-
on. One of them has dug a d
-eep meditation lodge near
the barbecue for her needz
on nights where everything
itches.

Hostile environment
-s breed pain alone; not ev-
en able to feed on fire-feeling-
fire combativity, a desert ca
n non-chalantly spit venom
in every direction, not even
hoping to hit a hi-pt. target
or formidable co-tormentor directly.
Alkaline passions blend back in
to their backgrounds more easily than
pollen in pus or even eels in a floating
salad. Many living, feeling sentient entities which appear
to be inhabitable environments on the surface and maybe
even maintain their status as land in some logs and directories
will and can smoke you out, stink you, burn you with special
tannins reserved for outrecular incursions which are felt, appre
ciated, and then expertly doused with too much sun plus a poi
son that react with strip-nekt beings left out in the direct rays.

Note left by one of the neighbors or previous tenant.

Pardon Me for Mattering

"Find Doggies' Tummies Imitate Sounds Around Them"

In the "woods," dogs' stomach and other sleeping noises would sound more like proverbial trees falling, we might guess. But here on Earth, you can discern everything from foreign voices speaking in tongues to electronic music and gaming chatter. Just the other day, Jesus Christ imitator Hoolie O'Toole was sent to jail for demonstrating that certain sets of instructions could be heard as well as followed from the bowels of a sleeping street bitch while in REM-Heat. The animal has been transported to a shelter thousands of miles away in the State of Maine where, "more than any other pound," her tired ass explained, "they treated me like I mattered."

Obscured by Flatus

Juniper is prone to tumorous growths all over his body, inside and out. For a while he'd sprout fingery pink blobs through his teeth he could just chew off when they began to overhang the jowl. Could this gene be harvested and viralized to inhibit precocious speech development in targeted individuals within the branks candidature pools? Then a furred, tightly ballooning sack like a misplaced, second-chance set of gonads bounces pert, just above the anus and contains a hardened mass that no veterinarian will go near. Which gland has sacrificed its own capacity for infectious response or even normal secretion in a real estate so limited as among those dorsal peaks and edges? Another living, blood-pumping agent inside of him which is him-but-also-not-him rivals his spleen in size and neighboring organ displacement but can only be directly verified by enzymatic footprint analysis. Every attempt at imaging so far has been thoroughly obscured by flatus. Up top again, at the base of the tail, you encounter a particularly bulbous and aggressive eruption, black and speckled like asphalt. When he shakes his coat, sharp grains can fly in any direction as if you'd kicked a jumping cholla cactus. Your bare legs may be fairly peppered with the gummy, reduplicative particles. This is another way that Juniper expresses and sheds his cancers.

Shaded information bar insert, p. 15.
Chapter 4: "Dogshiv!"
My Boys and their Bitches
Dr. Donna Thong

Taco Party

Hey youse feeling ennui or tragedy but might be wearing developmental pasties on yor nips, Spike TV, mirrored embroidered Rajistanic bedspreads. Yo pet adopted greyhound is running circles around dogfarts in his sleep man. This is the end of his line. Do you feel the wind? Put yor tops away boy. This street is cleared for wide tires and vice sweep only sweetlips. Do you hear his epileptic claws scratching your plastic office chair pad? Here's where you trade mainlined Scottish peat burns for a frozen Mudslide: time for a Taco Party, playboy.

Ken's rash note to Mike after the final swimming blog entry

Mountains Signal Disturbance

This is how much I am willing to channel everyone's jagged waves: they will chew me as on a spit until I can regurgitate love for each one of you, my enemies.

Alternately, I stand and piss a long and dirty fable, as I am unable to abandon all the crammed-in tackle I've been pulled into an angle with: there are those who need me.

Unhooked, some fish with ripped lips just truck upside down. Ery tam a gal stand up an shake her fleas, pups come crying with concussions and they bobbing requirements.

Giant Cranking Engines

Wind makes the hills shimmer with light be-
cause 150-ft turbines crank their shells and
spill friction into every living room and den.

Their howl is an avian or canine call, a harm-
ony of inter-special gaiety. The low one drones
to all: "Hear my prolific growl. Take my free

issue." Others ring shrilly, morbidly inviting.
Jangling crickets tamber nature's consent, ig-
norant. All-night criminal traffic now wafting

in from the 10. Bitches stretch in the sand, ne-
ver yet having met up with a scorpion. Lit ho-
opties creep by to the petrol stand, buffeted.

Hystadelic Rejoinder

Sylvia: I don't want to put away dishes with you while you're in your underwear.

Tom (turning toward her in grey boxer-briefs with a sauce pan in one hand and a rat's tail shivknife sharpener in the other): I want to open up some opportunities for you. To talk about what you saw. I know I was all wrapped up in my time experiment, and nothing registered. Not time. Not even horror.

Sylvia: Time lies, you know. It's a liar. Put on some baggy pants and we'll talk.

While waiting, Sylvia stands absentmindedly pressing what seems like her taint against the back of a faux-Rococo dining room chair. It boasts a darkly varnished hardwood patina, and it's downright cocky about its Shorn Crushed Red borganna brusquely shielding all the parts on which one might normally leave prints. Bare-flesh contact with wood, tile, lead causes Sylvia to auto-hypnotize and occasionally seizure. Even through knits, that kind of pressure triggers a not unpleasant hystadelic rejoinder.

Since that first week when Tom began trying to explain his "announcement" about his "Pax on Us" goddess coming to save the middle chanks, it had been over. Now crime was their bond. Tom's agreement with Collie was so strong, the power of his surrender so profound, that they could only dance with the beckoning animal that kept them stepping on. Tom singlemindedly distribute shivplate, stone compasses, Hopinaskipina for his corporment sponsors until his ears bled for lack of Filter of Loathing. Everything was dephallocentri-size now.

Tom: I'm back.

Sylvia (opening her eyes): Oh.

Tom: Are you calm? Why don't you sit on that for a moment.

Sylvia (lowering slowly, bracing herself on the borgana armpads): It was a bird.... It was obscene. You never believed me; no one did, and I lost my job. Now our whole county can't leave, and our essential compositions have shifted dramatically from gaseous to chemical.

[FLASHBACK: Going over the conversation in his mind, Tom recalls a strobe light of important snippets, a bucket of chicken, Patron shots. He squints, and spits. All he can see is her lips talking. What he hears makes him want to make her stop.]

"...one wing, but like a cape. You could say pleathery. White veins...

"...I thought I saw it again last week, but high up. It looked like a letter K. Going backwards. Flying with its legs spread eagle.

"Are you listening, Tom?"

Every Trade Imaginable

The Second Home was also away from crowds but for the Pair of Masters, the only neighbors, who could see you still Locked and Parked, not gone, on their Way to Worship and from. They may step past in Black, point an umbrella or their Book, and voice concerns. The male one had the Last Say, but She Needed to talk. He seemed both Softened and Empowered by her Gentle Excretions.

The third home posed too easy an Escape for Dependents. They don't think right. In spite of hangdeliers and dripping oil statue lamps, they take you for granted as keeper and wander. The Handy Gentleman showing it off was a little hostile, yet So Hot. You could have reached into His Hat for feelings of Every Trade Imaginable.

Hooptie to Tomorrow

I combed the chanks, all of them, to get housing for me and the bitches. It was the end of the longest Off Season ever, and a lot of what was closed down was going to stay that way. I guess I saw about _ spaces and met about the same number of men.

Phil Barleycorn drove me out to a hive where your fwd view and rear shield look the same. Phil was white and pink with the earnest humor of a man who'd been telling challenging jokes to chillun for all time. Never laid a meal in his own way. He also seemed to be sniffing for lint in my mind as he bragged about sending three zygotes to Pig 'n Tongue U. The rental structure had provided final launching pad for an original pioneer famly whose ultimate jump was remote lordship of these spoils.

"You may have seen it, the death march lot for K's right there at the end of the field, but the wind Never Blows this way," counseled Phil, farting. "They started this hole way back when the chanks were still flush and sweating. Then their heartland became a museum for ugly, militaristic protocols. Everyone who came here wanted badly to be a cog. So they called it God. It's where I'm still living."

Next stop, last rest stop before High Chanks and extremer pointz. RIP!
"Hoolie Roll: Hooptie to Tomorrow"

Intergenerational Bitch Fight

La-La and M'Lady went at it after a dispute Kevin says over somebody walking by outside the fence. But they were fighting over him. A lot of blood spilled on the patio and up against the stucco. I was trying to wedge apart their muzzles with a plastic lawn chair, Kevin was hosing them down (I said Kevin get the hose as he just stood in stupor), and I was kicking La-La in the ribs since she had her cuspids sunken firmly into M'Lady's upper gingiva. In the guest bath, M'Lady was spurting blood onto the double folding linen closet doors. La-La hid behind a giant white flowering Nerium oleander "La Comodona" where she also goes when I yell. M'Lady looked worse with the facial swelling, but La-La can hardly walk and bleats her whistle-cry with each step. Now I'm wondering should M'Lady be put to sleep. It was she who attacked her own daughter, who was being brushed by the deadbeat daddy. He only there once a week, and La-La growl when M'Lady try an get up in the bed with them. There was even a chunk of fatty tissue on the wet cement and La-La come back before the pain set in and lick it up along with a small puddle of her own mother blood.

It's a mistake to let them work it out between them who's top bitch. Who will cuddle in his bed? Eat from his plate? Sit shotgun in the pickup? Because K. won't step up to the plate and show his strength, put them down, they try murdering for fate.

Minx, Manx, Monx

Hi Everyone:

Today I hosed off the front porch in some very skimpy trunks and thongs, nada mas. This was to send a signal to all the wives driving by in SUV's with big sunglasses, sellulars and Slurpees that indeed, there is a fit and permanently sangle hottie in the hood. I would love to tangle with one of those minxes. It would be fun to catfight with their ladies as well. What else will we decadent cement executives do in a worl wair we can't get serious about grafting? I'll read it to you square: give me my rights back now or your husband is mine.

Peg, and I'm Serious

In Spite of your Religion

in spite of your religion, free radicals show the peace sign;
no matter what you say, my bitch got the soffess hairy butthole;
including discounts for malaise, nobody cheaper than this ass heeyah;
even if today a calendar day, we off menses for gentses, baybee;
whenever you want to cleeyah, focus on the natural way, padre;
if you don't want to create, let's negotiate a state wair you pay, Jack;
Cuz in the sack yo funny bone don't drive me home less I blind.

Time Crack

Legend and truth overlap in the parking lot of Chang K. Chang Chank Memorial Hospital. Howling, at half moon: birthers jamming at a Vaginal Borderline for their generations to pass. Wanting, not waiting: screaming, clawing blindly through a rat tunnel of pain toward the Crisis of Being. Mother, you hang in first-world maternity from a nasty Time Crack. You are the Bloody Poop of Creation.

How can I not love your babies? Until three decades cross,
They eyes wide with fear, or a Shadow of Medicine over Nothing.

They skins, pimply or clear, are oil of your Love and Care and Brutality.
How can I not adore these Puppies Smudging Up my Rug, bitch?

Maundy Friday

Won't even roll over when I shuffle into the room, but they on they knees bathing my feet when I stoop to weep. Go away, M'Lady; go away, Missy La-La. Gonna put you bitches to work one day. When I feel depress, you shake your tails like a single kaleidoscopic Goddess of Asses. I want to turn your force on my enemies. Stanky bitchcunt of infinity. Love weapon. Merciless forgiver. Virgin of recycling. Inundation. Burning saliva. Breath that cuts and scars in rosettes. Christ command me! How much time have I spent in bed? It's a Maundy Friday.

Two-Kleenex-Box Altar

kleenex boxes flowered and shed
cascading trills of snotted buds,
their tissues ripe with wet evacuation.

kittens picked their way lightly sniffing
where dogs the salty offrings shook in vain;
all organ product laid before bitches is meat.

Dog-Like Sick

unease around foreigners
suspect they digestive system
revolted n' curious as a bitch

Below the border, you swing upside down;
In a crack, they walk over you.
A million futures monetize in your groin.

back and forth till we dog-like sick
sky-chanks popping where they speak sang-skritt
mthyuh's bowel, rock-cum-flesh, eat me now

It seems to Have a Will

An individu'l, prone to corruption
As opposed to a state of the people
Becomes a criminal of loneliness,
And to Chaos of the Senses, a bride.
Under these conditions, I spawned a K.

Tissue structure in mummy flesh is real.
Plugged into this, with blood, is how we feel:
Not some Frankenstein, but a Pavlov's dog,
Responsive as nudists in soft meadows.
One mind can drive multiple bags of meat.

Este tio lleva sus cojones
Como mola porque si que puede.
Chango toma nubes de tobacco,
Mono lo que pasa'n los pulmones.
Come las cabezas de sudacos.

La Chi-Chi

Chang K. Chang Chank Jr. High is a feeder school to Chang K. Chang Chank Junior College. Only way to superseed the "junior" business is to log your first kill. Until then, you are a rookie, pup, know-nothing. The enemies you seek out, identify, target, love, and eliminate must come from among your own ranks. And it's your eager junior classmates that will drop you in a sec if they smell gay sweat. High-participation kills usually stem from gaywads that disrespect the Student Council by not showing up to bloodsac, showing up to bloodsac, removing their branks in a common area, or smoking. Ask a pissy question? You are on open-kill special all week. Hungry grads can make it far: border patrol agent, correctional officer, homeland deathsquad, cop, la pasma, lawn chair and awning resource specialist, homeland airborne deathsquad, la chi-chi, heating and air conditioning repair, or Pharmsupply bitch. Some even make it to Chang K. Chang Chank Senior High, the only institution of senior learning in the chanklands, a military academy with state-of-the-art golf course maintenance laboratory, sports bar training centre and auto shop. Failing that, stake out the Hall of Pissy Whining Complainers right after the homeland airborne deathsquad hotdogs have accidentally dropped another loveturd on some poor flake's hive or chall. These citizens can be easily picked off being so predictably on their knees forced to beg for the lives of their trapped families who must be sworn to silence even with their limbs on fire. With their patriarch wiped out, dead maimed or still-struggling wives and chilluns make warm, rich and powerful comfort vittles for K's.

Sylvia's Inadvertent Confession

"Because I am fat, I can only share my joy for food with this diary.
I'd set up the world to be 30% dancing, but when the 3 bitches of
the WD came clear, the wheel started to drag me down. Now I roll.
In this big dirty-ass house full of dogs, parties and tears, where
we romped, I have to make trails through the dung for my electric
rascal and my drug nurse. I should take vittles and recharge with
her support, but I fear she'll bring the future and its thrills into
my home and may plan t'kill me wit her kindness and Slimming Tips.
Because I was a founder, I can eat of the original bird, broasted.
Yet there'll be no mercy for those who dint save Neighbors' Skins."

Wheel o' Debits
Wheel o' Debris
Wheel o' Dementia
We Digress
Why, Dios?
What Duh...?
Wiccan Dipsplit
Whopping Disinformation
Windshield Dust
Water Dial
Weird Doll
Whudai Do?

Don't kid me, Peg. You know what it stand for.

Cave scrawl scrap(s) #(s)XXVIb and XXVII. Recovered by: "Dr. Donna" WD 1001

I Had Opportunities to Become a Cling-On to the Next Rung

La La uses her butt as a weapon, looking playful; Jun exposes his fangs to be sexy, as if the grrlz must obey him. M'Lady, the mahmi, squints at her family's surfaces as tho they're zygotes or cocks her head as if to track her brother and daughter, as pus-covered newborns, twisting in their film.

Sometime Juniper feels lonely as the pahpi, or he's not on the same plane. La La attempts to speak using her larynx and sinus. She wrench it out by twis' her tailbone. M'Lady calls late for her bowl and steps softly to it just to let you know she knows somewhere there's better.

Ooo... it stinks! You had that in you? I'm so sorry.
Dr. Thong stepped away from the home operatin-
g table in her den, a La-Z-Boy, where she had be-
en setting up a buffet. Either La La or M'Lady, e-
ach of whom had been sniffing around the faux-g
rape border garnish, farted again. Ted would be t
-here any minute, and she could hardly wait to di
-late his palate. She has several long-tipped pepp-
ermint gum swabs left over from hospice duty w-
hich she plans, remarkably, to set afire in a vase.