oh what it would be like to revolutionize. to turn a wheel along the way to a cultural behemoth, a scandal of the century, a posterity-magnate in a pure magenta hemi-tone. to revolutionize; a thought attraction. a mind revulsion. a biopic convulsion of a timid physiology, struggling and swarming, a malady of bees, a decoration of contra-skeletons bellowing in tapioca dust. what imagination oozes from the septum of your brain pustules? in an absolute theory of the geometry of the optical ballet, in a pale mazurka of cataracts, i am the pediatric pedophile. how heinous of a criminal would i be? bending morals, sleeping, waking up a seminal propaganda of an unfounded fear, of a thought experiment -this child loves child. what a paradox! a peculiar clemency of sexual applause, of a present hum, of a moon toy. when i smile, half-agape, half-denied, you fear my motives. what if, today, i were a feather of urine? what if, today, i were a bullet shell designed from your belly fat? what if, today, i fucked a light fixture, anal-esque, vaudeville and asymmetric? what if, i stabbed a door handle, kissed a sign in fluorescent red, telling me, screaming at my nose, this is the way to exit. at a nearby store, i walked in tonight, with a purple spray bottle, exist. it felt good. i licked my nipples. stimulated, and awake, i ran away to the river top, and swam across a battery of sixteen miles. half-afloat, semi-drowned, semi-erect. i stroked myself, swimming, caressing my fur, fingering my jaws, sucking a water eel, paraplegic and lung-dead. aside, what if i tore your lungs apart and flung it to the moon?
but i drift away. in apology, i made a rope tonight. with frogs and creme. and christmas lights. and jazz birds. my opera ornaments adorned, i strum a viola string for ninety two minutes. and at the end, i shred the piece in fourteen splits, releasing the violence, the temperate, the revulsive lattice of bone atoms, of the chic effigy, of a pressurized sexual ravish. at the nomenclature of a boy slut, a pediatric whore. because you kissed, held chins, held in parallel the acidity of your pubes, held an acoustic, amplified thrombocyte -a gamete dance, a fertilizability of homo-sexuals. literally, the homo sapiens, the wise man. makes me laugh, the wise man? yet same-sexual disparagement? what wisdom reference the Latin makes, i want to giggle and choke and tear my eyes and cry to understand the damage of the strict Conservative. the disparagement of my atomic cones, my crystal celluloid, in argument and rationing, in reasoning and folly, the paper bulb is my character. burn in resistance of heat coils and epiphenomena, of a daunting task of laughter -the universality of the greek child philosophy and the unanimity of breasts, the curvature of cocks, the pesticidal nipples, the body aroma of agarose and urea, lilting to the wave pricks of a moon tide, of a sun shriek, of a saturnine bonhomie of the celestial, the mega-scopic macrocosm harnessing an image of infinity in the laterals of my brain. isn't it funny, belaruth, that infinite is a number?
but i drift away. in apology, i made a rope tonight. with frogs and creme. and christmas lights. and jazz birds. my opera ornaments adorned, i strum a viola string for ninety two minutes. and at the end, i shred the piece in fourteen splits, releasing the violence, the temperate, the revulsive lattice of bone atoms, of the chic effigy, of a pressurized sexual ravish. at the nomenclature of a boy slut, a pediatric whore. because you kissed, held chins, held in parallel the acidity of your pubes, held an acoustic, amplified thrombocyte -a gamete dance, a fertilizability of homo-sexuals. literally, the homo sapiens, the wise man. makes me laugh, the wise man? yet same-sexual disparagement? what wisdom reference the Latin makes, i want to giggle and choke and tear my eyes and cry to understand the damage of the strict Conservative. the disparagement of my atomic cones, my crystal celluloid, in argument and rationing, in reasoning and folly, the paper bulb is my character. burn in resistance of heat coils and epiphenomena, of a daunting task of laughter -the universality of the greek child philosophy and the unanimity of breasts, the curvature of cocks, the pesticidal nipples, the body aroma of agarose and urea, lilting to the wave pricks of a moon tide, of a sun shriek, of a saturnine bonhomie of the celestial, the mega-scopic macrocosm harnessing an image of infinity in the laterals of my brain. isn't it funny, belaruth, that infinite is a number?
No comments:
Post a Comment