THIS IS A FOOGOO ALERT!

But this isn't a cautionarry tale atoll!

It's a FUGU ALERT!

and there is a formula which describes it:

Foo = the furious capacity for combinations as encoded as autorefractive mythologem = dragon = fool.

Goo = materiality's absolute denouement as the ground of combination, or loss = paradise lost = combination faile, or combination succeed to the detriment

of other combinatory follishnessies.

This is a FUGU alert!

Furious jelly

is a foot.

so here i go:

i bask and basilisque

in the wild fury,

and as i open my wings, it opens

its nictitating paddle arrays

replete with illuminated speaker organs.

this was once a furious icon of revolting display.

now it seems as if 

the ceramic copula

has been subsumed by its own

crazed surface?

I'll be the savior of objects.

all matter is poetry,

all circumstance

sacred drama.

get the fuck off my stank-neck,

daddio GOMBDURR.

even the fairest flame

must partake

in the red and oval cattle

which fill the flayed flute

of Marcy's ass.

GREY TOWERS OPEN FIRE!

THIS IS A FOOGOO ALERT!

this is a dove wing made of boiling nacred foo-putti

potential sprinting

along the fitness corridowse

in the great and yellow green temporal esophagus

the lightcone as fate=calculand

got a shovel?

there's a road of solid gold 

just beneathe the mud.

got a cigarette?

we just got robbed

of our growing habits.

mysticism always consists

of replacing the other with a cosmic eid, but what if

all the other is other and the eid is marching,

Caesar vidied a seizure,

and I am a seizure,

searching for an eye

in the mist.

at the center of the most excellent

and final poem of hermetics

was the history

of blue furniture.

you won't find fugu

in a pit of boiling dabloons..

I beg to differ.

All is fugu.

and foogoo is moot,

and mute, though its tyrant scream

is absolute,

and lutening

with lightening.

We'vre abolished all colour themes here on planet Earth, but welcome

to Marcy's ass.

and so at 3 pm everyday, the foogoo bell would sound,

and the great cake arch sprout luminous blue putti recliners...

what is the square root of blind masseur clones

divided the round root of umbrella times granny over baby white caps?

bamboo growing beside the beach.

let it be known dear, that the TRUFUGU

is a wry witlessness giving birth eternally

to its own witnesses (jigega, nude deskinding a sereclase)

and helping friends

down off the battlefield

back to the bar

now.

once again.

look dreeply onto my eids,

for the oval of red cattle

descends into the pupil

via a shadow

of absex.

only in passing

do we mention

the conquering sprout

of the informe',

but it isn't coffee.

See, Eid myself id become

a somatic prouncinull,

an incipient hiss,

a gladness

smeared with dinarrliums.

inside

my head exploded

outside

my great armor roams

like a cooing

and heroic

gasm asque.

This is what the universe looks like on string-theory.

and so, as sweet spring approaches the twin blank obsidian pages of the window book, its surface is overcome by the identity of the semiotic playing.

plainsong opens the debate with boredom,

but wabi-sabi counters

with both wild and abject hermeneusis

combined by hoary-gomi.

measuring orangutang tongue takes time,

but it doesn't give much

unless you consider

the fair celadon perrukes

of torrential termagents

as the approach

the herodial mass

to reveal their amulets

of negative ressentiment.

i mow this goddamn fugu down to size!

the great vehicle

is always followed by blue furniture

and neither ideology nor aesthesis

can ever changue-langue that.l.

history

like a murky drift i peer from

attempting to surmize

the weird path

of foogoo

she found the invisible staircase.

too bad it never existed.

i didn't turn into a pillar of salt

when i looked back at fugu

but the dream god bacchus

poised before a sea of blue wine

my ultimate divan of dream.

what is the red oval?

the red oval is a rogue gibletext.

a skizzard

which welcomes

fugu

back into its own body.

a weirdo's jelly

basilisking in the sun

on lips of pale grey fire

you will live for ten thousand years

with a black plum

hovering in a cube of frozen black snow

made of iron cricket tongue legs..

Vulcan was young and handsome then,

so make note of these VULGARD

BENORDS.

I'm about to slow down into runic fnords before I caliban the junction with watered silk pillow book buildings.

I roux

the dei.

that my currtune school

stretched out its helmet hand 

in a wish for bliss..

for every time i desired and grabbed

i got some of its bliss and some of its hiss

anubiseblis

we make green stucco with absinthe

at night

i coum

like a bat

like a gnat

my transmission

occurs.

foogoo

is the genius

of witlessness

as form

this is my mantra

this is my gold

hegel

as a ceramic shoe

for bees

in a flowerless

world

Is that Don Quixote'?

no

just the two hands of sanchmo panzer

and the great jellyroll revue.

die cast metel.

fugu alert: let these fields drift forever, groaning and growing, gorling, and gorillapedia.

I would like to take this moment to thank all miniature statuary who live inside the etherneal pluroma of wild fugu..

KRAKEN HO!

No I don't want to hear another Pinocchio joke!

It's time the world knew.

Weird fetishes will all converge

on blue velvet furniture

and calm library daze at homme.

fugu

has trapped us in blue velvet.

reality

conforms

to weird massage

but the crane is blind

and dances

forever.

O FREWL GAOWDWINE!

this is a FOOGOO ALERT!