Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Territorial Congress Meets Under Bone Island

Deep people are in control
Beyond the black doorway

A toilet
I cannot eat chicken but only
Human flesh as an example

I live the entire iron clamshell closed
Please bake at roughly 350°

For the entire dream they gambled
Trapped the blue skins with a walker 

The biggest man had no hand 
But a rotary saw instead

A gambling hall is steel and sits
In the middle of the afternoon

Which is a parking lot at night
Fights on the gravel remain
(wake up goddammnit! and be insane like the rest of us!)

She said their twisted bubbles
On plaques or which deduce the act

There isn't any shadow but their control
Or how the gambling might behave

The cutter the saw of course salutes maybe
Big boss kicked the brothers out
More old banged up cars

gizzard = brain

rocks = words

world = food



'the human' is already too ideologized
the body already 
'too diagonal'

with its knife-light displacement aimed
I puppeted the garden
one candle

Don't listen to this part, it will make your head cock automatically.

I think I would still like to be Alexander.

Words are useless.

My eye cannot involve the diamond hole.

I would grant you three wishes if I could.

Though my own wish involves destroying language.

I've been thinking of removing Emma Peele from the Series.

These gentlemen who bite on bitter cheese tiles
(wearing lemon-colored suits)...

The banquet is only a burden when you are already eating, or full.

It's not anthropomorphism if its dead.

This is Oscar Wilde!

mein own hobo makes it a job
over silver mustache pedals, and above my head
a cloudy lickerish boomerang...
Ah heads..

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.