i clipped a random picture from an obituary and ate it, hoping i would give birth to the reincarnated body but i didn't, i just shit out the picture with a bunch of poop around it
i just reversed all of your ceremonies, how do you feel?
i threw everything my throat had back into the center of your mouth and turned your teeth into a broken and mud-splashed fence.
you ate it like a greedy weakling.
in lieu of a condom, i used a thoroughly chewed piece of raspberry bubble yum when i fucked that dead moose (yes that one over there, the one with the raspberry-smelling genitalia, no, over one, over one—yep, that one right there)
goddamn i have no feelings and the lines around my face already need to be cleaned again.
i am a greedy weakling.
ah fuck, goddamn it.
i would like to blow up my right eye with a small firecracker—i mean, i want the firecracker to be large enough to totally explode my eye, but small enough to leave the rest of my head intact (maybe just blacken the socket a little)
the only time i can remember trick or treating, i got a crunch bar from some guy wearing a loosely-roped kimono—that was also the time i kind of kind of shit on my hand and threw it in his face (both because i was scared and because crunch bars totally suck)
i just reversed all of your ceremonies again—that makes them the same as before.
right now my mood is “softly exploding” or “mildly erected”
i have a bomb shelter prepared with the proper munitions for when the girls go wild.
and mario van peebles walked back to his skyscraping mansion and played excitebike on a really big tv—then boiled an eagle alive.
light the wick that leads to the veins attached to your heart.
when you explode, the pieces of your body and your blood will line the wall.
i will press my finger into the gore when it congeals—so it will hold the impress of my fingerprint until the end of time when the lake in space eats the sun, and everybody acts like there's a god, thusly making sense of their hero: themselves.
i am going to clone myself and then kill and eat the clone.
and i know that where there are holes in the ground, rain will fill when it falls.
if your hand is open, it is the same way.
same thing with your mouth.
if i could collect all the shards of sun that made their way onto my floor, or better yet, the earth (maybe use a giant net of some sort), I’d build a sunshine-mannequin of myself. i would slap it in the face and make it do whatever i asked.
for the past few hours i couldn’t stop thinking about how it’s impossible to sense my own weight—i even tried lifting my arm and leg and other various parts but i was always right there—my assessment failed.
right now i am in the passenger side of a car looking up through the passenger window at the trees that pass and each one pulls my sight back and forth jaggedly so i opt for the air which is maroon and orange from the factories along the horizon, sending out smoke—i will never have eyesight to go past that kind of thickness and the headlights and streetlights and the plane i see are only cataracts, like me.
the revenge of the earth is reproduction.
stop making things special it's killing me—and i’ll kill you.
i am going to board the freight train that rolls past my apartment at 2:38 a.m. it will take me somewhere that is not here. when it stops, i will get off and look around and smile. i will solve nothing ever.
living feels like getting hit with a cactus—a cactus holding a baseball bat hitting you really hard on the thigh.
you will know definitively somewhere in the next few decades if there are ghosts because if there are i will haunt everyone. i will do things like fill out the jumbles in the paper before you get a chance.
and/or eat all the fruit in your house.
and/or teach your pets to hate you.
and/or travel down your throat and spit on your heart.
and/or pee on your dishes.
in one hundred years, everyone will have a kid that looks and feels just like me (because i’ve covertly switched out all existing semen on earth with my own—ha ha motherfuckers, i live forever, or until I command the mass suicide and resultantly the end of the human populace)
i'm going to join a dating website and do some speed and post a long rambling monologue after not sleeping for days. i will be famous and have no friends and surgically replace my testicles with cherries and then put my cherry-testicles on your sundae during our date.
i don't know that much about making friends but i know if you say something like, "you'd never believe how many eyelashes it takes to manufacture a good paintbrush" you won't get any closer to doing so (unless the person you're trying to befriend is perplexed about how many eyelashes it would take to manufacture a good paintbrush (but you don't want someone like that for a friend))
big memory eraser/ear laser— those are the two things, the 'ideas' i have had the last few seconds. those two and then the ideas that resulted from thinking about them repeatedly.
there is a stain on my collar bone; it is black coffee i threw back up for i don't know why, standing in line at the library and counting the floor tiles my feet were overlapping; there was a plastic structure waiting by the door to beep if i took anything that would make the plastic structure beep. and that made me hate the plastic structure, i mean, because, i wouldn’t rat on the fucking plastic structure if it was trying to steal a book.
if i were a king or a queen or just even somebody important, i'd eat a hard boiled eagle penis and yellow-whatever-i-wanted and yell whatever i wanted.
and make violent things
things like yellow-whatever-i-wants.
last night i saw a hairclub commercial. in the commercial there was a man testifying to the power of the treatment. mid-answer, he paused abruptly, grabbed his throat and tried to scream. his face just grew more purple. he struck his throat repeatedly as a greasy tangle of hair erupted from his mouth, unrolling onto the floor.
one of the first things you have to learn is how to ties your shoes.