Sunday, April 10, 2016

Bike ride

Riding her fucking bike in the hills, chronological no-man’s land of middle age rude to her 30 years ago, still cringe, don’t know her, fictive. Living spatial harmony an illusion, grown to mature when experience teaches you that, good-for-shit logic had failed you there - and space gets tight, aging. Routine as anxiety suppressant, paranoia suppressant; routine well and you can love yourself like family. I don’t routine well, can’t hold a line, anxiety stays on, it’s mild. Nads itch, ass itches, can’t find right time to stop itching long enough to stop the itching. The thought of narrow space some day – long ride home on a mistake – trashed for your inhibition and forwardness in the same breath feeds guilty loneliness that suffocates late try at human connections and there’s nothing left but to tell them to fuck themselves and their time trend scripts for cool and leave you to daydream, the onset of chronological no-man’s land, spaces of the mind narrow, exterior space sells out, curiosity’s convolutions smooth, itch at the comfort margins to get by

Thursday, April 7, 2016

He devil and she devil

He devil and she devil wear a white speedo and boy is it neat-o. Your mom might print some flags for a hopeful struggling solar system and get in the history books. Harness dimensions to cure coming population crises but such discoveries likely applied to vehicles, most lines will die out, sad. My chinchilla pisses on the people.

Friday, March 18, 2016

On Vacation

Outside the chalet over near the slope waiting for the second coming, an assortment of family and holy hosts and surrealistic creatures, in the paper some high strung fucker said it happens today right now, the inane things that people do but there was nothing to do here anyway none of the sweaters or haircuts on a real vacation look like the 70s movies in Europe about spies or avalanches and movement’s got to be as routine as lying around, hollowness to look forward to afterwards vacations don’t always help. And it looks like snow in the north. The second coming of my big ass, the world goes on hopefully

Thursday, March 17, 2016

Gold Cat

Don’t let em get to you, those fuckers, freed themself 
of a custom or two but in the end all they did is made new rules anyway and rules is rules, custom or not. You don’t need that, you don’t do rules…get yourself a gold cat idol and girl with a fizzy gait vector and thick gooey conscience that doesn’t do cool, raise a no-function slab of colors that aren’t together out of parsimonious debate and go out where the distances are layered thick so a low incline road looks almost vertical…sensual fantasy in the outdoors is for old Greek books, for the intellectualizing and aestheticizing of it all but for the real senses and psyche nature’s already got gorgeous obscenity taken full care of, fantasy is for the indoors, a few fixation clues but blank space for the senses that wanted this all…eating in the outdoors is for manual labor, tomato, lettuce, & ham sandwich with dirt and sweat but sport amusement eating is for inside, textured, clammy, & variegated in excess of function is already full on in nature so picnics and sidewalk lunches are viscosity doubled up on viscosity. All of this…only until it all turns into a rule…out in the grass and hills, a gold cat cult, rest your psyche and senses off, when urges send you back indoors let em loose, trash some customs, keep some and sully them in goo as you like, or not, either way, any way, no way, it’s of no consequence anyway