Nonsense! 1.314101

Yet more tidbits from the nary dusted, more darker corners of my mind.

I know things people don’t know. For instance, look at Bob. He has gone for days complaining about the reek of excrement following him around. What he doesn’t know is, during an intense congress with the toilet, he had unknowingly gobbed a piece of stink onto his finger during the wiping of his buttocks. As a result, when reaching for an itch deep inside a nostril before heading to the sink to lavese los manos, he inadvertently created his condition.

Plastic eating microbes harnessed to consume landfills go awry, and cleanse the world of petroleum based products. False hearts disintegrate and fill the ribcage with blood. Cars leach into dust that blackens the wind, leaving astonished drivers staggering out of a crumple of steel.

He found himself embarrassed by outward displays of masochistic camaraderie, more so when perpetuated by men well beyond the teenage years. It was as if he felt there were certain quarters to communications, that it should be undertaken austerely.

Bob farted and Rob said, “I hate it when you pull rank on me.”

It’s the Boneyard Jive,
Not found in just any dive,
Just when you take a dirt dive,
It’s the Boneyard Jive!

X: …so to explain this, I’ve got an analogy for you—
Y: My God. He called me an analogy.
Z: I don’t know what that means, but it’s grounds for a good beating.
X: Hey, wait, I was jus—CRASH! BANG! BOOM!

“Look around you! The still deception,” Master Shoshen smiled.
“So you are saying there is a conspiracy a-foot, Master?”
“Yes!” the monk beamed. “A conspiracy of self-deception!”

We are just stuff inside stuff.

Neon hags patrol Catharsis Square, strange ideograms glowing under their short skirts and fuck me pumps. Raucous crows scatter in the passage of their marks, young lecherous men in sharp suits who flash small denominations and pick the women up in dented cars.

The package read: “A new fun flavor!” She wrinkled her nose and brought a morsel to her lips. “O! So this is what fun tastes like!” She dug in, great powdery drifts of confection snowing from her greedy fingers.

“That man, he’s always going someplace; he smells of somewhere else.”

It’s a powerful thing, to shape a false real.

He swallowed the gaudy morsel just as there was a newscast announcing Napalm Truffles caused spontaneous combustion in aged humans and shouldn’t be taken by individuals older than forty-five. Whoops, he said. And that was that.


…contrived visions…

she peers through the stalks and brushes the cornsilk from her cerulean gaze with golden hands…small green boys caper in the tall rushes under a bloated red sun…a lagoon boiling with silver ripples as dark things twist in its depths…line of labor in the desert, plucking burning bushes to be thrown in long yellow bins…a trail of bubbles etching a line of blue breath as the fish god passes through its medium…orange men with long slender wings gambol above a watery marble, trailing their fingers through the russet clouds…black basalt is the relief which outlines these small, fur white people ascending the mountain…girl children with sad eyes huddle under weak shelters as it rains green frogs and blue snakes…a field ruined by grasshoppers and the wheat’s ward hangs from a tree in hopeless abandon…its corrugated steel rusted, its timbers rotted, its plaster and paint peeling, its streets and windows cracked, its buildings and stores crumbled, its soul decaying like the corpse on the road into the city…a hum of computer in an empty room that smells of morning coffee…roaches desperately race across linoleum, a black flag at their rear…shoes, countless matches and mismatches, fill the warehouse with a musky smell…candles gutter as the black nights blows through the red drapes…women weave baskets from the slender hairs of yellow-eyed cattails that root and lap at pond’s edge…songs that echo through its drafty streets, and a long dead philosopher asks if a tree can be heard when it falls with nobody around to hear…blue and orange turtles leashed to a sapling with bright yellow string trundle in a circle as the laughter of children echo over the hill…neon squirrels flicker through the park at night…old men sit on knurled steps to reminisce about the green days of youth and sip tea in a cloud of smoke…tin cans and aluminium kitchenware on small paraffin stoves splash ethereal blue on the walls of the cardboard shanty…the circle of stars, through the quickening ever-rushing fall of night and swell of day, wobble as the years pass…lazy dust in the lethargic bedroom…thin and bent, his spectacles reflecting monitorlight, he taps slowly at the keyboard