Saturday, August 1, 2009

Rock with it like Aspergers, drinking detergent and margerine.

Lois Lane was smoking a Marlboro on a nondescript rooftop by herself.

No other present this time around, except the wind of change keeping her company, amongst the bodies of dead scorpions. A long winded sidewinder skewing economy of a cacophony was being excreted out of a wound in her right side, alongside the garbage and trashtalk of Icarus and Prometheus, bickering in the street over Plato and pork rinds.

Three more times she muttered, three more times.

The eyes feasted on the carnal display. There was undertones of overpowering one another, the blue vein and the purple heart, all connected by the arterial roads that the buses go down. On the way to develop a new technique of achieving immortality, the Germans stumbled upon nothing but layer upon layer of the Earth's crust, the crust it earns only by watching time pass every eon.

The telephone stopped the evolution of the natural human ability of telepathy.
The market of free trade gave way to the trading of markets for freedom.
Evie decided to stop watching the news, the sunshine of the morning seemed brightened by the fallout she didn't know about.
Position assumed, the playground was painful this time around. The timber from this land wasn't worth as much as the guy with the Tim's on was making on the corner. Palm pilot to fly it, co pilot standing around with the lighter in his hand.
Catching fiends like flies, the fallen angels decorated the honey covered paper, hanging like butchered meat from the roof of the church patio.
Evie made a mental note about how the world wasn't as eager to change as they were being lead to believe.

The same old, same old lack of inspiration without the taste for lactose.
The next transcript showed none of the previous indiscretions that were all to apparent in the build up to the final rejection.
I need to build a smoking room in this house and to do some fucking washing.
The third eye is boring, so what if junkies feel enlightened and empowered by a belief in the superstitious superlative hyperbole that is life, but what if this is it. Your experience is all you will carry on to the next plateau, and nothing phenomenal will come of your prehistoric fantasies of labyrinthine styled, clandestine laboratories, like the one that is in the middle of the not so abandoned Perth Entertainment Centre. It's a maximum security prison for enemies of the state and a 24 seat round table for the Perth elite, where they discuss social occurrences and exchange BSB numbers. The scantily clad milk maids bring in glasses of buttermilk and scotch to the fat cats hiding inside their top hats every time the bell rings.
A tumbleweed of razor wire and assorted plastic floated past me, quite gently and respectfully I might add, on my way to the deli yesterday.

Gobble it up.

The need for nicotine overwhelmed William as he wiped the sweat from his brow, the cows were culled enough for now. His trigger finger started to waver uncontrollably, and the only thing going through his mind was old Youtube smoking fetish videos he had watched again and again, until he realised there were playlists which made it easier to watch attractive girls suck back on six, eight, twelve and even sixteen milligram cigarettes.
A cringe worthy shriek was heard back up at the homestead by the matron, who was at that time, preparing a mince meat and kidney bean pie for supper.
William had gone and accidentally shot himself in the foot.
As William started hobbling and limping back up to the forties era weatherboard house of waterboarding, he tripped on a cow carcass and fell down an incline, descending straight into the peat piled at the bottom.

Fucking Jimmy motherfucking Hats fuckhead, fucking the fucking fuck out of your fucking fuckfaced excuse for a fucking fuckbiscuited existence, for fucks sake.


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