wigged out baby

I am not ready to start my journey

in fact i hesitate to breath, lest it hear

me i brought yesterday to its knees

today's resistant to change

it was a rubber band, but it

flipped like a locust from my

ear to my elbow and then

hopping against the foot

to the floor, wigged out baby

you call in an interruption

in order to prove your 

borderline designation

i do not wish to cross over

my stand is here, on my ass

have no purchase only sass

have no sass, only a penchant

without a penchant i'm

lying down with other species

bleeding into the upholstery

wigged out baby

i make my stand at home with Shab

a place of great humor and tedium

coming in we have to check each other's

eyes to see what wild remains attached

by Ilyn

"Which Cave is a Home? Which Home is a Grave?"

Mthyuh Protection Society

Phyliss [trans.]

Painmaster

military guys have a detachment from their beauty,
which maybe is regarded as one ant to another ant.

you might run into a buff kid but whose mind is al-
so worked out, elaborated but by horrors, not folios.

He'll love the forest, skimming waters, moto-biking,
easily switchable to emergency alert overload pangs.

This gentleman can never be your friend unless you
never know, try to kiss him, listen, coco-oil massage.

by Mike

Auspicious Battery

Sated but still licking at shivplate from a round, girlish stone after the fact, horizontal poolside in a white rubber chaise, it's easy to call: Fool's Blessing, Chump's Paradise. After a 16-ladder climb up to the corner shade cave, it better be good, and it better be bad. I had to apologize to the valet-wench when the tip of my hard Italian duffel chipped the "bronze" trunk of a sentinel gomphotherium, stuck obnoxiously there in eternal trumpeting siege too near the beads like a high-security hole sniffer. Then appeared the living creatures.

It hadn't been three steps after checking in when I spotted it across the water, between doric plaster columns among a copse of senatorial nudists with towels, hunched over its tray of ashes. The chest was sunken, and the face was drawn of limits that all spelled bitterness and spite. It could have been so posed at a maiden's breast on a canopy bed, having sucked all the life with her breath, yet still wheezing for truth and light and sympathy. Its toenails bit into the cement. It watched me.

Later that night, I stepped out of my room for a jacuzzi. There was something glowing blue at its lip. Some bodies pose naked because they cook with religion, and he was a doctor of carnal gospel. To take the waters and behold him was to sit in bubbles of pornographic faerie children. His blue light and severed heads, caught in their fright and wonderment, dangled from every nipple, hypnotized all moral superiority. His youth and self-regard, krishna art and wicca, made that night the start of my final auspicious shakedown and battery.

Why?

Today's Epiphany
with Ted

They've finally figured out a workaround for the disanimate flesh energy sourcing question. Watch these mummy monarcas process insects caught up in they flying f-suit nets.

[insert video of actual x-ray digestion taking place in the rubbry digestive tract of a mummified pre-historic bird]

It's called "assisted automated bioprocedural response," and from all indications to date, it's worth everything.

The capture and processing of living matter while in flight implementing god-made organs enshrined in Pharmsupply Latex 40, the transformation of waste into a self-lubricatory system for metallic parts as well as a combover for the ozone layer-- this means sustainability, but even more important, perpetual motion.