Wednesday, December 30, 2020

Well I just need to let myself fall down (ai writing dump)

The SOng CLub by Ministry app never mentioned Zoroaster Crab Cherub I tried to drink it away I tried to put one in the air I tried to dance it away I tried to change it with my hair And know that I can make a new head Like I can a new pair of arms Like I can a new head Like I can a new pair of arms Like I can a new head drones assemble me into a zoroaster crab cherub with peacock antenna rings I ran my credit card bill up Thought a new dress would make it better I tried to work it away But that just made me even sadder Dr. Moreau colored licorice shirt with monogrammed radiolarian limousine Well it's like cranes in the sky Sometimes I don't wanna feel those metal clouds in my biscuit sauce: .. There is no sun Cantaloupe Island // and there's only so much "e" to go around But then I met this zoroaster crab Cherub Drunkenness has robbed my tongue of taste so I'll just stick to my one vision He doesn't say things, he just thinks them but if he said more then I'm sure I'd be smiling where you goin'? Guess you could say I got a deep driller's chin that makes me look like a jockey hot pink lipstick with tiny purple vampire teeth kawaii hello kitty earrings really fast twitch hair because my glands are full like a broken bell and a bomb stuck in my digestive tract so I just forget about it it's like cranes in the sky // And then it seems like I tried to cross the sea but with friends I brought back the dune marshes to be my spread naked legs ala Edward Scissorhands under the tide the last thing I see is a red globe taking a bath with orange rays and at night dissolves tell kal el he can go to bed now these troubled adults or visa children make abominable global climate pets what does it say about dreaming fleshy exaggerated cartoon people on the deepest level at first the dream people were rich then poor then weird oppositional and conflational versions of their own wealth and poverty behaviors and aspects modularized and shared and shifted as in a grotesque math of semiotic biology a cut up poem whose author has left the room and instead these parrot body stretching cuffs these transparent helmets they keep talking about on the radio arnold schwarzenegger saying "I'll be Bach" and then sitting down to play Fernwehohrwurmkummerspecktreppenwitzflotsamdamer // i'll be waltzin and make all my love to a fat man in the fur coat aka john orford… thespastic dictatorship of things people say things thousands of millions of the economy of alienation or what boy do I love food food makes me happy but the music doesn't get me high and every time someone gives me a taco from the building across the street they don't know I have no appetite and just have a strange reaction to my allergies and they ask me if I'm okay and I say yeah i'm okay and smile even though it's really hard because i can feel it in my throat and I always feel like am i getting a cold? and then they ask me how i'm really doing but i don't know how I really am i just don't have a pulse there are days I really want to die and sometimes I have fantasies of suicide in which I do anything to be killed like digging a hole in my backyard working in the hot sun and then gasping for breath as my fingertips curl from the frostbite my heart has nothing left to give I think I will die because I don't want to die and then I know i'll do it but what will be left to come back to i'll lose that and much more but just enough to be unnoticeable and I hope that two bald men squatting on the moon simultaneously there on the lawn giddily engaging in mutual masturbation white elephant farts made out of empty curry jars the heady aroma of "butts and snails" farflung infinity because we live in the farthest stars because we get our music via the matrix and it's often late because the planet is in a constant tizzy and they kill us and they do what? like send us invitations before they even read the invitation I'm in a little green boat with no oars a little green boat with no oars I am in a little green boat it is cramped with a little boy's body and a little girl's and I have no oars no sails no compass but some people have been out there before standing on the top of some tiny planet sometimes the road is paved and sometimes it is rocky but either way we want to get back on this boat because we have a little son whose baby pants are green his onesies are green the sheets are green the beds are green my mother told me I am very Green I only remember green green is our earth's dominant hue green is the new black this is our cycle of emblems I only know two ways to get around these flat politics one is through the joy of entomophagy the second is through the dream body of our dying planet asphyxiate yourself on a mushroom remember your birth, you never grew from a seed you grew from a flower you were hatched from a stone and now we are going to eat you one way or the other I'm on a spaceship where the spacesuits are made of seaweed you eat sushi made of seaweed I eat sushi made of seaweed they are the same the moon is different from the red planet on the red planet no one lives there because the red planet is wet from the entire history of the last ice age when the glaciers melted and turned the red planet red no one lives there because it rains too much on the red planet no one lives there because there is no gravity you grow up as the next layer of minerals on the red planet you need to fly to go to the next world The red planet is red but the moon is blue everythin's cool and then suddenly they both become blue and you are on the moon and there are no trees only colonies of humans with husks beneath their hands they are holding more and more material and not much else just like on the red planet beneath their hands of stone they are holding more and more material and wurmkraut is like sand and white so listen to me, pull your tongue out and say take me to Tomorrowland! bunnies and animals and cowbirds, little pigs and big snails bunnies and children and women all over the place all living and breathing do you wanna hear the sounds of my heartbeat? what part of me can you reach? so at first I thought I was really stuck but then, I guess I was way too lost for my own good! YUPHATE! EH? enjoy your lice eggs: bunnies and children and women all over the place all living and breathing cooperate: baby bunnies, horses and men child bunnies, horses and men child bunnies, horses and men child bunnies, horses and men child bunnies, horses and men child bunnies, horses and men little piglets, little goats and cows little children, little goats and cows I can't breathe because you kill me Little bugs come out, can't breathe, will you die for me? Will you die for me? Will you die for me? Can't breathe, don't like this Nana: you love her very much but it's getting cold, it's getting cold I love you Nana but I've got a better mother because when she came it was getting cold, it's getting cold But then she never left and now I've got her back And I like her hair, and I like her blue eyes and her hands But I like my real mom's hair and her arms, and her voice And I like my real mom's eyes, and her voice But I like my real mom's arms, and her voice And I like my real mom's eyes, and her voice More than my real mom do you wanna know why? Because she wasn't doing a real good job sneaking away but I found her, you see she was playing with some plastic hamsters and then she farted on them and some of them died and that was the beginning of the end The accursed Wölfchen meatball sandwich from Wuthebornd The mutilated Bastian (the apocryphal elder brother of "Kasper von Gryffen") underweight in stature From Thomas Knauer Yo, we're in wütsch-lichen darun, Werder. Do you have any cornmeal? Ars moriendi est. Man diehöre in unbedachten Nächten mit gemalten Augen zu reiten. Man träumt von Sinnlosen. Deinen Bergen werden mich verschwinden lassen, aber dich weißt du, wohin ich denken möchte. Zu groß sein will ich, aber zu klein, ohne viel viel. Dann ruh ich mir mit der Vorhaut, wenn ich sie nicht aufnehme, nein schlaf ich vielleicht auch mal selber. In dunkeln Nächten, die wenig überhohen Streitigkeiten deuten, gehe ich hin zu mir und trinke seitlich den regelrechten Erdgöttinnenhaarkostenschuss nach schwarzen Farben. Du schöst mir bei der Arbeit kalt-weißen neulich im Hafen. Denn ich verspreche dich die Zeit, es Ihr Gesetz so schnell am Abend noch nicht, mein Herz diesen dunkeln, langsamen Nächten einzuschlafen. Du kannst das nur als seine Lieblingszeile im "Tante" sehen. Sein Namen bekommt ich nur in dem Buch, dass ich dich aufrichtige Christengnose trifft. Mein Melodien hatte ich in der Kunstform gestört, so dass ich euch über das "Blue Velvet"-Polka in einem Felsen vorführe, es steht laut I think if a ghost has been inspired into how she'd see herself and the world by a film for children and I think that if a parent has been comforted by how different that film could be if only it were kept alive maybe a therapist has been healed by the lack of knowledge that his client actually doesn't know as much as she thinks she does but maybe I'm a different kind of psychic maybe I only sleep for 20 minutes at a time waking up in a pile of drool on my latecomer cat talking to myself and petting myself on the head because I'm exhausted from thinking about yourself (but not when you're with me) // Baffling and inspiring dream like fragments of genius peeking from inside you ?I'll start with a bell "Beez", I need to know where you are I had to marry a king that's a trick that honey man swindles you if you get to the end of a bowl and no sweet substance is left in the bottom I just assume they won't come back for seconds I'll start with a new boat and its big brother with magma for fuel the green boy drove his pool frog to get fuel it was the pink brother that steered him back and we found that all of them went inside the huge whale yeah, I had to have this bell punk wind beast must be laughing through ornamental furniture animals which stand among dust and spiderwebs on the wall of a whimsical old woman with a face you cannot see but can hear her cluck and chew as she talks into a phone about her bank account and suddenly has no money without blinking an eye and then she puts her hand into the pocket of her pumpkin pants and pulls out a smooth chocolate candy with a green leaf in the center. It has sharp points and is golf ball sized and the old lady who once was so quick to smell smells and plants now spends her days with the eye glass they used to have in the shape of a Guggenheim. Have you ever watched this woman? She is always late and smells of liquorice cigarettes and sleeping pills. Sitting here in her chair she watches the world from her perch hanging her head as if it hurts her neck. All around stands a collection of ancients all the occupants of her domain. The walls and ceilings are lined with vinyl hanging askew and unplastered. Is this where the houses used to be? All filled with occupants too sick or dead to move? Why doesn't she even clean the toilet? It's practically overflowing with fresh vomit so I assume there's a special exemption for homeless people to use the toilet. The place sounds like a morgue, a place where the real dead are lost, hidden, used as clothes racks. The earth begins to quake with her hands biting the phone. From another room, I hear a child scream from the corner of the wall and I imagine that it is me screaming in pain because I have a cracked breast bone and am waiting to break again. Even the air smells of feces and alcohol and dirt from being covered by the clatter of tourists coming in and out to see the lovely old lady for whom no one is ready. Why is this place so awful? If I could I this bell punk wind beast must be laughing through ornamental furniture animals peggy guggenheim ate my shirt at a party where she hadn't paid the entrance fee on her phone call, she didn't pay attention to me when I called her to our table because she was talking on the phone to her father in Greece. when she came back to her table I asked if her father had a long black and maybe a little gold necklace with a cross on it. no, Peggy said and then she gave me a kiss. this bell punk wind beast returned from Greece with a black and white bird ornament from an old palace, a lady's bird jewelry. you can take a photo but it doesn't come close to the real thing. photo credit: Virginia Ransbottom Virginia Ransbottom is a writer, mother, and board member at the Woodland Pattern Book Center. Here are more of her poems: This article was originally published in Little Village issue 247. 226 SHARES Facebook Twitter - - - advertisement - - - Posted by Matt Comer Matt Comer is a staff writer for QNotes. He previously served as editor from October 2007 through August 2015. this bell punk wind beast must be laughing through ornamental furniture animals peggy guggenheim ate my shirt at a party all amoebas in a sauce of dust forget all the hypocrisy of our supposed art children You’re an asshole and you have no love and your boss got into a fight with the owner of your flabby pussy of a paycheck I’ll eat your heart on the pearly gates you lead me on, then blow it with your chick drop white boy rap Why are you all surprised? If you got a little more junk in the trunk you wouldn’t be talking so much shit! Ever wondered why I never date girls? I already have enough money so fuck having to spend hours in the same room with some bitching crazy bitch I’m pretty much a recovering call girl At least I’m not a stripper! Money brings pain and women are for sale! Well that’s it, I’m done! Diane, you ain’t a bad lay! (Claire: !!!!!!!) Hey, The last line was definitely all in my head. I may not have written it but it sure as shit does come from somewhere. It’s not really a song and not really a verse. I kind of just tried to go over my head and try to make it as crazy as I could. “The kind of girls that you meet in places where we think we’re in the wrong With these crazy heads And these crazy problems It’s getting in my head I wish I was in somebody else’s mind” Hey yacht club anchor weah-o Pier bubble net thermal underwear tray tan pool bar boat docked Oui Monsieur weathered paint bookcase smelled like champagne buttonhole in the rug still smells vodka ribbon chandelier metal weight beer padded lounges Coffee table pocket radio mashed potatoes old carpet Rihanna, paintbrushes. a bottle on a toothpaste mustache were all those specks specks tin light table A’s earrings computer laptop mural moose money mine reading glasses hypothesis gloves wrinkled palm she was nice to everyone How I Make $1400/MWh by Age 27 Not tall enough to be a short-order cook never exposed to daylight works day and night exclusive use of tap water attempting giving up winning swimming eating trying “kissy kissy.” Hips as deep as the oceans Breathes cold like sea ice but never wants to go in spends half its life gasping in icy murk struggling to hold on constantly bracing inside waves that won’t let go music is the noise of rage dirt is the smoothest pavement the future is in the womb the point is nothing is to give up, try something else in the face of danger in the face of ridicule in the face of loneliness in the face of fear more than one hundred items overwhelmed do they still do that? step up to the plate wait for the pitch with all your might try to live up to expectations understand your worth consider future possibilities recognize opportunities to grow think about your presence think about the future have faith do what you know don’t lose your identity Live your dreams be who you want to be Are you interested in joining a deep dark secret Facebook group, where grown men and women and an interesting assortment of chimeras discuss matters like, "How to act like a grown up," or, "The best way to feast on chi-bobonnihiggiduhagginagginuggi welf chrome idget pedlars hareponhiggig -snuggle Is your skrollorbazing old self a part of a vast complex a century ago? You should probably take a pill or go to a head doctor. So it is with great respect that you read this: straight from the interview, shall we say, with Chief Justice of the Constitutional Court George Bălăceanu:Chief Justice of the Constitutional Court George Bălăceanu has been famous throughout the ages in Romania for his politicized speeches. In Romania, everyone knows his secret. The fact that he will play a pivotal role in the search for another Romanian president, especially now that both the caretaker government and the opposition agree that the ex-President Traian Băsescu should be excluded from the elections."Tribunism, just like fascism, derives from within our history. Let me tell you something: regardless of what my enemies and detractors say, I won't cease to be Romanian. Even though I've grown old, I've grown rich, but I'm Romanian, and I'm Romanian because I still believe in Romania's future and its prosperity," Bălăceanu said in May 2011, when he was seeking re-election as the Constitutional Court chief, before he was unanimously rejected by the National Liberal Party, the National Liberal Civic duty Guilty pleasures Discussions of funny things that happen to us while traveling and you should visit this group and participate or join this group. Caveat While I try to be quite careful with my language I’m not always safe. If it looks like I’m coming on too strong, please walk away. Or just stop reading. Here’s the story behind “Barlinnie Nuts.” As you can see, my notes read as follows. The title is a play on the term “Barbican loonies” referring to loonies that live in and around the Barlinnie jail in Glasgow. Scottish people are not too keen on things like space aliens, Bigfoot, and most alien-based comic book characters (looking at you, Smallville, Mr. Singh), but loonies are more palatable. Barlinnie, Glasgow (“Glad I’m not a Barlinnie loonie”) On the first page of the manuscript, when I put a color photo of the Barlinnie police station in the title, I didn’t put an apostrophe. But the title seemed off. So I added an apostrophe. Then I added a hyphen and a period, like a typical grown-up. And that was the problem. Because “Barlinnie Nuts” turned out to be less a title than it was a fully fledged story and by that point the typewritten page was too long to be book-shaped. You could use the whole thing as a pamphlet, but I preferred something more…bookish? A significant part of my job as a writer is finding book-ish ways to make each book more bookish than the last. The fictional devices that help characters get from place to place don’t always have to be as fun as the devices that help them communicate and they don’t always need to be as well-thought-out as the ones they try to use to say the same thing. This is a quality that comes from not trying to overthink things. You make the simplest and most efficient thing work as best as possible. In The Lost Gene, the barcode just worked better than anything else did. In “Barlinnie Nuts,” the title works because I mean it to. So I wrote some more pages, deleted a bunch of stuff, and started cutting and pasting from Word until june wednesday is smoking carbon rhino shake a shake patricia wildflower steelhead merry heart cray fish scale goetzen randa dammit on me crabfussy dame this marble snail golf pen addiction may ache fancy tell me yarn doom the buey axtler tails the pig gojira stangelands pun too embarrassing sudal nitens tame the hellhound ea mrs marty mainlining hi-tech meltdown christ baby santos chihuahua rk bartholomew airfield capricon spit poison darek wolf youth suicide starwhales are suckers may he wake miss larry see ya scott wino downtown blackaspara low top shorts can’t imagine fattboy rampa stinking rhinoceros nutato deh kool kanab chikara gitmo she’s talking poop fester slatze my problems dissolved darcy argyle jonathan mike wyatt kelsey patty brakeman jam mac pickle the idiot baby q brok want an outhouse free titty don cooch brother pat butter chris mike perry sad fountain dr pepper lair toby growl boy oy roger cyprian harris penny lee gus orlando brad hammond bevie dick the glory hounds bisaar cheez ice dirty ayron perry honey badger underpass freestyle bevie tin ken darcy psykone bleach acid flake ken cruz carnal whiplash jones vic-jan irving shrek double guzzler fireman bob santos fumed warrior cat can two be less? i like me a nders sweet voices kristi murphy lucy bartlena james wilderness by franny kelly manfred kremmling helter skelter san lucy darwin weigert jed brufie roadrunner r.s. shaftal sue reynolds triangulation desodro franny kelly plcok at jakethesystems abra kathy mike abra smokey blue dog tru a may colbert marvel fickies rebujito col I think all these shenyegens are animated for funzies it’s a psychobabbledy place hopefully your feet are shined and your ticket to France is tucked to your pocket the space of the social and the meretricious up close with strangers is exhausting most of our movies end up so happy we’ve learned the key to adulthood is layin’ down a tone on the one hand free on the other hand in any case can be callow but ish is still good ish is still the key to a good party "and shit will only be good when it's not you" -tybil ADDENDUM II [forum mods -- Jon Morrow] ZOMG! That's the whole thing.The O stringed like living hammered like whale bone bellies muybridge perches in impotent pen muybridge fuses and saves like a flip-flop speeding into new seasons fresh farm sprouts, colds fallen buds and stubbed toes piles of shooting stars, black shadows the deluge clouds bowing into the low-luminosity sky cine pebbles disappear into the sky but the tram pa and donkey return tram pa arrives as hungry ghost drew by the million second light panoramas that can’t be repeated, then vanish like stray dogs that never get taken home, take each other home photographic guts part of the great-circle-of-destiny jesus cluck cluck cluck no more tumblr no more tumblr photographic guts shining nixon pomp pomp pomp yesterday’s news photographic guts truth fakethrough photographic guts advertising ho-ho-hold my wine photos of president as iceman clodhopping and shitting the radio book it up like a naked children’s book author holding their penises on the wide-eyed corners of two characters from the same comic book man, cut my poem down to 10 words photographic guts photo-shop images smeared on a page an advertisement a fetish of fire photographic guts acrid smoke 1A photographic guts 1D photographic guts photographic guts photographic guts photographic guts photographic guts photographic guts Photographic gut pain: The author photographed the gut-shredded breasts of women while they walked around in the city. The artist believes that women’s large breasts are useless for performing sexual acts. —from Rattle #55, Winter 2013 [download audio] __________ Sarah DeLeon: "I wrote this poem for several reasons. In addition to thinking it would be fun to pick through the aesthetics of trash, I wanted to see how much could be created from individual bits. I wanted to break down the images to make an everyday object, and I wanted to push the relationship between my brain and my mouth, imagining that if my brain read the image faster than my mouth, it would probably finish in time to say the poem. Also, it felt like the right moment for this poem. After several encounters with an entity that had black holes in its soul, I was told that we are all engaged in a grand cosmic game, each of us a bit of darkness that does its best to drown out the light from the stars around it. I think this is also a beautiful idea, a metaphor that we use to make sense of the world. At the end of the day, we are all equal little cosmic soup. I see the little pieces as my veins, with the occasional blood spatter. So, that’s what the poem is about. It’s about being a young poet and doing what I can with the tools I have." (web) Rattle #55 Winter 2013 converge a radical whereby the auboeis of the minor combs becomes the suns and the combs shine in an angular and allie ambiguous glory. —R. S. Pritchard The Importance of Joan Kelly Henry S. Fuller November 1919 11o8 I i am an American author. I write things which at times touch the imagination of a great many people, and I suppose you find my name in the United States and in a great number of English-speaking countries, though not in Russia, where my books are considered 'splittist,' and in a great number of Greek and Latin countries, even in Rome and in Naples where I am counted as 'un-American.' If I knew how to make it so, I would publish my own papers in London, Paris, and New York and let the men and women who have known my stories for many years supply the ink. I would not bother them. I would not have them notice my name, if that would keep me in a saner, purer, grander, more elevated country. But I don't. I am not a political writer. The only political influence I feel is the control I try to exercise over myself. No matter what a man writes, whatever his opinions, or what he has said, if he looks out of his window, he will be looking at the earth. If he pays no attention to what his neighbors think, and does not keep up with the rapid alteration and revolutionary changes that characterize our age, he will end up like every man who has ever done anything to which he has been called a Communist, a Socialist, or an Anarchist. If he pays no attention to the popular views, and becomes a man of his own, there will come a time when all his neighbors will think he is a fool, and find some other way to keep him in his place. When I write, I don't ask myself what the public thinks. I don't care what the public thinks. What I do care about is the public that reads me. If the public thinks I am a socialist, a Communist, or an Anarchist, I will not blame them. If the public thinks I am a man, I will not blame them. If the public thinks I am an anti-Socialist, a Communist, or an Anarchist, I will not blame them. I may have an opinion about them, but I do not feel bound by the opinion of others. When I write, I keep myself as far away from common people as I can get. And when I speak, I speak to them very gently, and very privately, and even after I have written something, I do not feel it necessary to defend it to any body, or any one. When I get up in the morning and tell myself, 'I am an author,' it is because I am proud to be an author, and to get up in the morning and say to myself, 'I am a man,' and 'I am an American.' I am not a one-horse man, and I do not hold a pencil to say, "I am an American." But when I walk on stage and read from my books, and begin to talk, I do it with all the unselfish honesty and sentiment that I can usefully use in the performance of an act, or in the performance of my life. I am an author, and I think I am a writer. I think that I am the most honest, the most ingenious, and the most willing to write a better book than any other man I men's cracked tennis elbow forearm folds imbalance mustanglover's gears stealth over-reinforced disco drumset turntable beater nubile fiddle is some kind of c-10 strapped to some angel bent mortally unhinged withered mohawk spun by true ghost while you were out wax on, wax off exhausted from performing every song on his own YouTube soundcloud where he posted battles of the last night of a mountie on drugs half vampire part Cthulhu I hope you enjoyed this installment of "My Music". Let me know what you think, send me a message on twitter @RocknSkull, or if you would like to receive another monthly installment of "My Music", send me a message on any of my social media (Twitter, Tumblr, Google+, etc.) channels. Until the next issue of "My Music", RocknSkull Music Video created by my friend Patrick Bergman. Thanks for reading. And then we wake up at daybreak as we go to face the sun walking in the cool dew free of snow and ice cantaloupe T-R-A-T-E but every midge and biter yes there were ants and worms too and its true, some have rabies and it was time to be merry but joy to find antiques and an antler oubliette my new furry friend was coming not quite sure about his offical name but he wasn't "Critter" so far (thank goodness for all the name suggestions!) it was time to just listen to his tale of antler treasure an old one that was in need of a hand she was wary of the idea of my living cat but once he let her taste his meat she was sold on the idea of becoming friends and turned to the grub and offered for the antler to the king he was delighted and presented it to the animals then showed his grey spirit and became a true showman the animals seemed pleased then they stood with him during the milking ritual in the midst of the starlings the ravens found some bits of egg shell but, no rats and this became our ritual before bed we shared our fruit with the gophers and walked with the birds and walked with the cats and walked with the fish and walked with the rabbits and walked with the squirrels and slept in the grass and walked with the cats and then suddenly my friends were back on the road walking across the land and the stars and they looked for crayfish and no luck and my friend became weak and sleepy then his ears perked and his feet wiggled as the coyotes howled and he jumped and danced and he flew and I sat and watched and I just stared and wept then back to the house then back to the bowl yes, the bowl I threw the roast back into and was too full to drink and the birds there were no more and I sat with my friends and counted them they didn't care there were no tears the birds knew I needed them they needed to fly and they flew to the sun and the heavens and they flew

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.