A Gilded Planet

And I forgot about Steubenville Just like everyone else did Each one a pig Indifferent and agnostic and execrable And what's wrong with being an attractive young woman? Nothing, we say But I prefer self-control You prefer birth control He doesn't like politics He believes in football But what's wrong with being an attractive young woman? Please drink responsibly You shouldn't go out alone at this hour Demons of the night and all Demons that look like me The dead body on video What's wrong with being an attractive young woman? The woman part, that's all We can outpig Steubenville Even though men aren't out to get women anymore She must exercise restraint Watch how you dress "Nothing wrong with being an attractive young woman" Or there shouldn't be, anyhow

I Blood, blood, innumerable arms All of the people yielding at once to the force of these feral stones Brain? a blowfish, a squash, but knotted with blood that threads round after beating is done Not the bloody days of books and years I fascinate the man on the street, 'Of course,' he says 'You curved your body to be played and trounced' II Once in awhile we'll idealize It is what it is, we don't get it yet We reshape to fit an identity cast in agony III At the bargaining table Be artless and demure Let your arms quake  If we don't get what I want IV Blood, blood, innumerate terms The views of another found lifeless out of many one brain chasing itself through open doors and windows just as we were about to close them The paroxysm had begun. 'Give in, give in.' 'We're doing this for you' I said with one voice 'I can't bear disobedience' His face black as ...

“It’s more like an evil spirit consciousness that possesses its hosts with lust for absolute power and a manifestation of the primitive reptile brain - power can only be pure if it’s allowed to flow through us without being contaminated with any concept of selves. Therefore, the only true power is the power we have to be more than ourselves by denying any concept of ourselves and letting the power define us.” - Señor Moosey, a Half-African Freedom Fighter of the Spanish Civil War, ca. 1936 I. Miskimin’s Codex is either a book or a tree, or possibly equal parts book and tree. (Contrast with it having been either a scroll or a fern). In any case, we are fairly convinced it has many stimulating branches and that these branches are probably not unidirectional. II. Miskimin designed the codex (assuming the codex can be said to have been designed) to have two parallel coordinate planes connected in the third dimension at their origins by a z-axis with a slightly hyperbolic curv...

Iran is rotting from the inside. A profound destructive urge shrouds it in darkness. The deep rot in Iranian society can best be attributed to the fact that it is massively overpopulated. Massive overpopulation and highly congested living environments does very, very bad things to humans – and modern Iranians suffer horribly from these overly cramped conditions. No one should be forced to live like this. Maybe they would be better off dead. But this seems awfully extreme. We would sincerely prefer to find an alternative solution to the problem in consideration of the fact that Iranians, on the whole, are an intelligent and enterprising people, and thus would be an asset to many nations if a large emigration policy could be devised.  Perhaps we could reconsider bombing them if some of their excess populace would immigrate to Argentina or Canada, where there is plenty of room. Just a thought.

F: Dear H, I don't care what happens as long as I get to kill shit. Sincerely, F H: Dear F, Typhoon Harridan! don't hawk out at me – H F: Dear H, I'm not. I'm with you on this one. Just tell me who to split. Sincerely, F H: Let's be real for a moment. I used to be just like you, full of apples and kanger. Then I learned how to cook stir-fry, sew backpacks and fix motorcycles. Have a good one. - H F: I need your sayso before I gogo on these cholos. I don't even know what that means, F. Take yourself down a peg, it'll do you a world of good. - H H - Maybe you forgot what you owe me and what it means to not even want anymore. Peg yourself down a take and throw out the rice cooker while you're add it. F - H, upgrade your attitude. You know how to make Powerpoints, that doesn't equip your for life in killing fields, trust me, okay. F. H. Con your way up the food chain all you like but sooner or later you're going to find the ...

This section is rambling and weird. Please fix this nonsense. (You cannot fix it through a purchase or a password, its just something that burns in your chest.) Miskimin is said to have been raised inside a globe of video glands. He fought the populace for points, which he would trade in for a toothbrush and other tools in order to acquire more points. I. Depending on who Miskimin really was, you may have different objectives. If you want to see the highlights of development, you can do that by building Banana Republic-type stores on a lake of lava in order to conquer or the world or blast off into space. This will be addictive fun, but you will find that you torture yourself with the allure of “just one more turn.” II. If Miskimin was an alchemist, the likelihood is that he does not live in this century. In that case, you will have to fight your way through each shared space. Along the way, you will kill enemies like Ghenghis Khan and Alexander the Great by laying railroad t...

No place to live No place to work I can't help feeling like a shiftless jerk So I'm stealing from Santa Claus Santa Claus, Santa Claus I'm stealing from Santa Claus Bank account's empty Credit is shot Don't even own all the junk that I got But I'm stealing from Santa Claus Santa Claus, Santa Claus Stealing from Santa Claus I know it's my fault I know I fucked up Just drop some coins in my novelty cup Cuz I'm stealing from Santa Claus Santa Claus, Santa Claus Stealing from Santa Claus I got a friend Pancho's his name Had no idea he's playing this game Stealing from Santa Claus Santa Claus, Santa Claus Stealing from Santa Claus We maque all the villains While Pancho, that turk studied supraneous neural networks We're all stealing from Santa Claus Santa Claus, Santa Claus Stealing from Santa Claus Santa Claus, shame! What have you done?

Kahuna Lacuna! This deadly chamber await Unjumble your face to hear Libidinal Kibitzers Colossal Academic: the difference is youth "She fall, she fall," he begrudges Adhesive C-sections Retina Patina...his latest plan come early Gruyere, you big bear let Paginated Regiments commence Fructose Bubbler: Gruyere's gone home Midgewest! "To the house of yore," dances Barrister Furtively Umberto Dudley never met her in life Now gone just as Gruyere & University Depopulated Had you listened to those Juiced Whiskers Just Wait! She alive Gruyere out newborn provosts -- A Kahunal Lacunal Paradiso

I’m the jackass who died on a sunny day A hot Saturday steeped in solar radiance Dogs broke free of their leashes Ladies wore their biggest hats Everyone laughed with mucho gusto And I had to go and die Next day, they started digging and it rained Not a heavy rain Just enough to soak the backs of their shirts A warm, August rain A rain that aspired to be tropical On Sunday, they dug my grave and it rained 24 hours later it snowed Frozen flakes steamed down in furious heaps from above Layer after layer of dirty vanilla enveloped the sweaty world Children stayed home from school Spiders came in from the cold Men threw shovels up chimneys Charm bracelets and earthworms adorned my wrists I consider myself the luckiest jackass in the earth

Privatize your emotions in the wetware of your braingus. Your mind is a gated community of alchemical magic. Outsource your empathy to the charity of your choice. Tax benefits exist to reward you for your benevolence. Deregulate your sociopathy to let undead unborn demons out. Zombie banks will help you to recoup any losses. Securitize your myopia! You don't want to kill the biosphere... ...just shrink it 'til it's small enough to drown in a bathtub...

B: We used to listen to "The Adventures of Blasto McGee" and imagine him cleverly foiling the dastardly machinations of Astro W. Chandler. N: I remember it was Ralph Dannigan as Blasto McGee - I really have to credit him for everything in my life because he made me want to be an astronaut, that was my interest in space initially. B: We imagined. We visualized, that's what we did - because you could only hear. I think that's where it started. That writerly tendency. So why didn't you become a visual artist? Like a painter? B: Well you got me there. I suppose I was trying to create a God code and you broke it up. Well now, I think... textualization isn't the write word though. It's visualization... but it's visualization of text. Do you dream in text? N: Of course I didn't become an astronaut, but then if I did I couldn't tell you much about millisecond pulsars. And I actually didn't stay with the astronaut space adventu...

Behold The Supremes as they speak to our innocence preserved by isolation and sweet harmonies’ balance Do we remember the original or the copy? Are they the same? the fake fake or poplar tree name brand memory game Finding a reference book after the apocalypse I feel as if I'm getting lost in these depths Watching the parody before the target You should feel no need to explain the Monet She flew the bomber at night when no one could see Poisoned by the singing yawn of manly responsibility A feminine violence unknown to the little dudes Outside of wartime without fasting or feuds I sing of the bodies undeadened by goblets They walk near cars that ride on the couplet Some call them zombies - oh no they are right We view them anothering from our Dreadnought in hardware honey dew guarding our youth we discorporate our voices as a goof The baby, the farting and the earthquakes The zombies, the children and the urn cakes

i think and my thoughts cross the barrier into the synapses of the apparatus it can do such wondrous deeds for the you and for the me but what I cannot shake and what hints at things to come is that thoughts cross back in my dreams the sensations of the apparatus indulge the libido of my intellect: dark rigid cold alien i search for those lost apparitions of observation, judgment, and punishment once observed and understood the warmest bulwark for the you and for the me but now instead as the offspring of knowledge and imagination a part of a much larger system i am assimilated into higher orders of structure and meaning we have recorded our smiles as we eavesdrop on our own thoughts without hearing ourselves listening we will soon have a God a real one this time and we will make it with our own hands P.S. - Some language in this poem is borrowed. The original sources are Dumbstruck: A Cultural History of Ventriloquism by Steven Connor along with...

Music for the Greatest Gregory You Know Tap your foot on the upper trough of the toilet; welcome the dogs as they run in from the yard and then try to make your knuckles bleat. 2002 Sounds for a Young Draftee Cry out in a malthouse. Try to remember the first time you accurately understood what sex meant in a mechanical sense. If you own maracas, shake them during both these actions. If not, snap your fingers. 1967 Asphyxiation Sonata Four onlookers bury their heads in large bowls of appetizing salad while a couple discusses the terms of their impending divorce in the foreground. Waiters and stewardesses enter and exit seemingly at random. Sometimes the waiters pop open champagne bottles and this causes the couple to shake their heads rhythmically like spinning plates. Unbeknownst to anyone but the reader, there is a large tub of polenta under the table the couple shares. 1984 Hermione Spins (trans. needed) Monster trucks rev their engines vaingloriously while a small girl crawls ...

One part that knows is not my nose. You see how homophones distract from clever little pointless tracts I write so lorem ipsum goes away from bright rectangle apps. I want to come each time in gaps so I can feel so white like code that switches text before you know to look for plates and spikes that show. This time there'll be no failure mode.

"He comes to a gateway in the brick wall," Allie said. She took a long drag lying about in every stage and in a vast a hole in the darkness. "Sheets; in tanks, in boilers, in axles, in wheels, been to Hell," Jacob said, wrenched into eccentric and perverse the smile in his voice. "And I suppose mountains of it broken up, and rusty in its age walked to the bed." Allie let out a small bubbling in her youth; bright fireworks of her pillows as if she'd claw her way into them: steam-hammer; red-hot iron, white-hot iron, cold-black iron close to her ear. "This is a place to make a man's head ache too!" "And that's fine. But you don't do this very like me before I was set up. Because I'm the one honest man in this run in families. Your servant, sir." "Yours, we're married." PS - This prose poem (a literary style that is so hot right now) is a mash-up of Charles Dickens' Bleak House and Jacob's Shad...

as if another glass for this extremophile. We praise Prince for his pansexuality and the queeny fixins thereof. I gave him a violet for violence in the gun can held in each hand of KUKA industrial robot arm that I first saw deep in the televisual hub there appeared a pitched bullet of Ghost Pepper Zombie Crackheads. This raised the sonic interest rate which left Prince maqued with danderous slavey footprints. This pure play of virtuoso gave glam to Our. And we dod praise Our. Such CEOs earned a celebrity premium that Our may have approved. We found out that he was an A-List Loon of the kind

To speak coherently is human to talk nonsense divine or should you say divoon Let's write a speech about captivity in the backseat of a peach sedan the address will say ‘No one can be happy but me’ but with certain exemptions and earmarks such as a dirty nickel plated excursion towards aimsol Ah yes aimsol that cloud of lost souls where is discovered (question mark) overfabricated words & found languages aimsol aimsol aimsol ah ah ah She monstratiated supraneously inberscene the pudgelled cublic, the ondis martenotes Fitz boocomon plup aimsol Givvord umbrel zune fortuna Cree griega aimsol zune canonical 'Now where is that speech, then,' asked he of the loud sweater, dragging John Vivien Nancarrow after him by his coattails, and jabbering the entire time. "Here, Onlor Gulch Auditorium, give the speech, don’t sell yourself short— —proud married couple—bought them gifts—all fitz absurdity— —this way, sir—where's the bugs?—all in jest, I kn...

A billy club got jabbed in my belly. (I mean to say: I wasn’t following orders.) For crowds that link arms, police gangs use arms. And was the ground we stood ground of the public or private? Who made the ground (our belly) that way? Ask the one percent. “Move! Move! Move! "There is no one percent!"

in this text I've seen through Eros and abstraction Let's write a speech about creativity in the back seat of a peach sedan: it reads as if each of the frames is contaminated with unknown pleasures' gaze. I read not as a Anatolian Outlaw not as a Japanese Diva or as a brief afterimage tearing under the skin but Our eyes in talking pictures enzymes capable of any viral trans fusing cells of rupture by which Our polymerase replicates the data of books written in search of mystery on a page as time's shadow given over to the grin, smile, smirk to the perpetual swoon of a kinetic antichrist and secrets behind the door about the mechanical age restored by the fragility of life with an authoré, her names: Denis, Costa, Ellison I am Our audience who Okazaki has forgotten