Tuesday, August 30, 2005

The Undead Fed Express

US Open: August 30th, 2099...


Saturday, August 27, 2005

You Ain't Goin' Nowhere.

I've made through perennial amalgamation of knowledge you my bride and wife to be and see me for all I'm worth and while I'm inside of you you can call me husband without laughing cackles like scotch hissing as it crawls down throats and ruins marriages and effulgences. It's a matter of course, that of course (laughs) we'll be putting that portrait of Jesus above our bedpost as the kleptomaniac chooses his items in front of the storekeeper and the irascible our mighty Father whispering his recriminations now and forever amen.
My dear, I only hope that the minister is of interesting disposition because Lord knows your mom isn't going to hitch us with her tired eyes and sinking flowered Sunday mass satin hat. I'll reveal myself to you in front of God and an idiosyncratically pleasing genteel Pfaffer but not under the invidious eyes that have seen not the war but the result and the corpses walking back in the blood-masticated night like undead driven and droven down the rough, paved driveway which will always be the sensual preclude to a return to an unknown and not wanted to know clemency compared to the perpetual anxiety of the forest they had to mow on through without their victory pride but with weighted heads, weighted for getting closer to the ground nothing more. And she saw it all and I won't let her see this that she can look at and depreciate like the country maid getting ground up in the saw mill and over and over until she can finally see it in congruence with her dried tears that weren't soluble with the inveterate plaintivity of those goddamn eyes and that she couldn't cry even in the early years for those torn men. She could only cry for happiness and you know that I'm not a joking man and you're not a happy woman and we can only hope the priest coming on down in a frock made out of prenurtured laughs, and passable and pregnable eyes or some goddamn glasses that ingest his familiarized man-wife-make milieu.
Where is Joe Sans with his truck it's already four o'clock. Gonna need a truck for that walrus belly a yours.

When you can't write too bright-like...

Cry me a river.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Onward, you hirsute manbeast

The night is full of affectations and we're all inculcated with drudgeries like tanked salesmen.

Monday, August 22, 2005

My heart's delight


Run back to foreign territory!

Saturday, August 20, 2005

I see a pattern

So you've finally deranged the youth. How does this relate to our own derangement, class? In candidness and but in circumspect non-white lie laughs, the class regaled each other and coughed their saliva effusions while you bleach your eyebrows n your leg hairs the color of the dead sea from last year's dream about living on soil. While I'm out of meaning and out of words and thoughts and chalk it all up to granma and that piana!

さようなら、先生。

Born again regretationist, this guy. But with all frank out of the picture book, my dangerous wishes are already gone and with burned fury rescucitated after each quietude. If there are ways to portion out my mind and slaughter the unamenable remains, call the butcher would you...

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Tennis Bonanza














So what was that brother saying about finding a reason to buy PSP? Push hard, teddy bear pappa.

宿題の答えでーす!

えっ?風邪を引いちゃった?大丈夫。まず、立って、雨が降っている外で自転車に乗って、スーパーを見つけて、入って、高い薬を病気のお母さんの為に貯めたお金で買って、その薬をホームレスに上げれば、神様は労わって、直して下さるかもしれません。

Blow, ego! Blow and crack thy cheeks!

Treasure and indemnify your children's children's ability to penetrate your fellow friends' children's children jumping on top of each other like toaster ejected bagels and for God and your other incestuous and fantastical posteritous prurience. If you're going to make a woman out of your later-tilled seed, at least put a paper bag on not that language in this house! Language is a free-spirit, nonself-effacing and ego ridden plague, said the Hamburgler. Treasure. If you've dipped into the repository, I'd suppose orificity like that rhyme. Oh oh! Not all arms, I'm all arms and you're dead dang. Teetered off the precipice like a mademoiselle in distresouelle hehehe then bang! Anticlimactic, unrejected bullet, go forth, like these prose! Oops, there's the conscious train choo choo chug hug me.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Dearest Diary,

Diary, I've made a wonderful discovery! The difference between blinking and winking when I working on girlfriend's plaster head! (Of course, the real ones go around the house when I'm that tired, forgetful little old me and then the next morning, getting the carton of orange juice from the fridge and POW and we laugh about it later drinking the orange juice, coming out of our nose; it's how they love me, you know). Anyhoo, forgot no time to reread up to here will come back later with more Bling Bling.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Dear Diary,

I've properly discombobulated my water factory dream shop mechanic's head when I found it last night on his body where he was lying on the floor after I surprised him in the back with a hedgehammer for his birthday. Oh, the hammer wasn't for his birthday, of course--that old dog knows that it's my favorite--I just wanted to give him a little pat on the butt but I was afraid he might misinterpret sexual cock urges and so I gave him my "Oh, you!" pat on the back instead. Anyway, it's about Christmas time and the colors protruding from his coconut brain remind me of Hamlet's soliloquy after knocking up his mother or something or other. Sometimes I write things that I'll be proud of later like that last sentence though having read it it's pretty hot off the presses magical proudness that isn't shameful I think.
I wish I wish I couldn't love a woman who was inside my bronchitis infection. I'm getting carried away. She shouldn't have smoked as a child, and I shouldn't have been being breathing then. Like I said to my son on one Christmas morning to myself, "Walk the snow and leave your path, but you better goddamn hope it's snowing behind you cause it's one hell of an ugly goddamn path. That's life, son. I know you have other things going on right now--girlfriend, your mother, that environment thingamajig you like to write reports about. Well, I'm gonna go ahead and pat you down there to make sure you've got my GRANDCHILD IN YOU I REMEMBER DOING THE SAME THING FOR YOUR MOTHER. Here's your present; enjoy. Thanks for stepping by. Hah, hah, hah."
That was a fine moment in my life history while I've torn my way out of it into the shell around it that's not as soft but more protected. Take care, Jack, take that care and cake it all over yourself and then let your girlfriend eat you heheheh.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Banquet

I've heard stories of lost vicarious pride and gained and aged shame at father-son soccer tournaments, of garbage men knocking on your wife's door at that early morning hour which is more elusive than the imperceptible midnights back from the bar, and pawing those amorous folds in the dress that you bought her. They're all good stories to tell by camplight or dark light coming up from the street lamps on the roofs and in the closets, at least while you're down in your bed, with the covers swathing your vital points and my hunching over because of your clothes but straightening sometimes and shivering your shirts into aural ambiguity in your mind and fear in your pants and you pulling up them covers until you've without your eyes feeling instead the sheets against your eyelashes. They're all good, but I wish your momma wouldn't think and call and talk and "Hello." We'll call it even tonight and you're losing a limb for sure.

This one's for the newcomers

Morning Nightmare Story Time

I traversed the ghosts in the street and finally dropped my drawers. While the circumambient aggressiveness and salient sex eyes attempted to nervously bind to the saliva glands and proliferate more efficiently the tangible mating call, I watched anxiously, bathed in my own effluvium.
Gosh, I've fathered a child already and I'm at it again.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

A review of the party night

In the marbled dining room we were treated to our own round of naked slave boys who were deigned to be chairs for the more luxuriously treated guests and denizens of this sexual playground. My travel companion, Gorgius, chatted and rationalized our chagrin for not receiving this particular accommodation by agreeing it was best to save our squirt for the more private and less restricted environments. Our own rather loud converse did not however prevent some of the more prodigal guests from pouring the whine from their authentic Norwegian gold goblets down the lads' pants, thereby coming upon a reason to pull those inconveniences down around the ankles, and then to slop up the mess like pigs to the trough. We watched remembering the unclear and rather invective invitation to these quarters and slowly regretting but enjoying our own unwelcome voyeurism.
It was at this point that the master of the house rang for his weekly execution. One of the maids and one of the cogs was brought out into the center of the table where we were hitherto enjoying our six course meal and ignominious entertainment. He prefaced his decision of who would be embalmed and mounted in one of the recreation rooms where the afternoon sun would transform them into the hollow wax dolls we saw on our adventurous entrance into the bath house by jeering with his tumultuous clapping and servant boy buttock slapping. We had postulated that cadavres' rather deliberate placement was undoubtedly designed to prevent besmirchment of the water by prurient shenanigans, but considering it was the chef's job take care of the loser, it was perhaps to stimulate a different appetite that, if often satiated, would sublimate the master's more unusual leisure pastimes to the rest of the aristocratic claptrap and indemnify his name as the city's very own Pleasure Treasure. Well, I was thinking these thoughts whilst stealing glances from the little lad across the walnut rectangular arena when the answering game had already begun and I was looking out of place not vociferously laughing at both of the vacillating dogs' answers when the master...

Now that the ice has been broken...

The inauguration party! You know there's only one way to have dirty fun and still feel great about it the morning after.



Thank you, Olestra®.

Posterity Come Back to Haunt Ya, Momma Bess.

Hi.