I'm kidding. No I'm not. I'm proud o' my scrumptious misery. You covet my sorrow like a salty snow cone. You wish you could feel the fresh sting I feel in my chest, the heftiness in my limbs, the fuzzy ache in my brain muscles. Well, you can't have any o' it. It's mine. I […]
Accompanying music. Winter night—fog smothers the starsclear full moon.
…it’s the work I put into it. …it’s the money I get for it. …it’s the money I pay for it. …it’s all ’bout the results. …it’s the thought that counts. …it can’t just come from nothing. …it’s all within me. …it’s what I don’t already have. …it comes from mass production. …it 1 o’ […]
A Marxist & an Austrian-schooler walk into a bar, & after chugging 20 KG o’ ale, the Austrian goes to use the loo for an hour. ‘Pon coming out, he holds a glass o’ urine & says to the Marxist, “I’ve spent an hour laboring to create this pee. Since it clearly has labor, you […]
You thought I was gone. But you were wrong. You thought I was gone-- but I always come back. Just when you think you can slide back in your easy bed, fed on the cream o' fulfilled dreams... that's when I strike. I'm your AIDS. I ne'er go 'way. & if you go near that […]
¿Dónde está la luna? Debiste mirarla cuando puedas. Está leja para siempre y no regresará nunca. ¿Where’s the moon? You should’ve watched it when you could. It’s gone ‘way fore’er & will ne’er come back.
& all the pulsing itchiness— No, I speak not o’ those moldy hinges on which your spoilt rattling paint cans grip. I speak o’ mo’: a rainbow jungle whose palms o’erbrimmed with crisp crisps— that’s how I spelt it; it’s Britican without the sharp-edged can openers. You think salt water can’t be fresh. You think […]
“Gotta write the bike in a fight for strife in a dive for pines with leaves for cheese & these are fleas for keys, please,” babbled the idiot as it stuffed greasy peanut butter into its blood-chapped lips & through its unbrushed rusty teeth. But the suffocating pressure o’ the flimsy arm bone o’ the […]
Dijó mi supervisor, —¿Por qué tienes tanto estrés? Hoy es tu viernes. Pero, lo dijé que no necessito sus vierneses; todos los días podrían ser mis vierneses con la ayuda de unas pastillas de cianuro… —So there. Y es por eso que busco para un nuevo trabajo, señor.
There’s still space on the star-lit streets for smashed pancake crepe styrofoam cartons parting my commercial from my residence, presenting the present o’ presenceless. It all makes senselessness. I love the black boughs so snug in the black sky so tight in this black universe so terse. But I don’t like the seekers, the flashbulb […]
