Wednesday, August 7, 2013

My name is Princess Tina Yak Dawa Yak Magina Jawa.



Comely fortitude, leaf botch breaking rays into rays, leaf botch razed, then braised and, in the haze of kook smoke the earblown wander, possessed by ratcheting horns, by helicoid horns, by horns which snake through heather and clover and hedge.. The smoke is pink. My name is Princess Tina Yak Dawa Yak Magina Jawa. The particles of the smoke are tiny cherubs, nano-cherubs, and they fly, for Eros is a fog, and Technology a fog horn. My legs are horns, french humbug camisoulehorns, silken tree horns which grow like tuning forks to pierce the meadow, that green ale mask grimacing over frothy numeric clots, dots connecting willy-nilly into a full-nelson of willy, giving me the creeps, the patterns, and the swill cupola. I blow pink smoke through gigiantic helicoded hirns, transparent devil urns which hold my tentacular arm sausages like thatched bum souls. I retire into sausage. Into silk wrapped cactic sausage scuba dolls green fleshed underwater things which feeling vaguely disappointed and float in darkness dangling huge pu-erh tea bags into the ebony abyss My name is Princess Tina Yak Dawa Yak Magina Jawa. for mind is a tea leaf not yet finished steeping and the climb is touch and the cup is raw and the war is ordure leather uncomprimising glad finished and in fishnet stockings holding all these newd ears at bay their leafy ear-trellises invaded by magnetic herm-worms displaying marked behaviors of subjective crisis My name is Princess Tina Yak Dawa Yak Magina Jawa. Oh a monster chicken dances carrying a mandala of purple glass knives whose handles are black obsidian eggs and the yolk is black and the tie is black and the cummerbund is a gravity well space station dress code and jelly is squirting throughout all time and space as time and space and I know nothing bereft like Fort Knox wearing a Chinese Bowler hat My name is Princess Tina Yak Dawa Yak Magina Jawa.