The mummyfestos cracking open after the Bastille came out of her mythochondrial boudoir.

Judy burns at the shake. The mummyfestos cracking open after the Bastille came out of her mythochondrial boudoir. This

God o’ God shuffled the constellated deck of mirrors. He threw them your way, species, lobbed at you his boomerangs – you, dreamy bozos, you, reflectoids who feed on Creation’s spotted enigma to rest in peace. Freshly cut Permafrostites, schizo-daughters of Zeno, herds of halves with pipes from navel to the eyes – navel of God, your eyes –, the sun’s stuck deep within your ass, and priests are your batteries. Your top is an inflatable always rooted in mirrors. You’re meant to look for the other half, like Plutonia and Urania and like all uppers and downers of smirch. The General Handicapator called that split language and added Babel as a nude rehearsal to spearhead the spiel. He had your top go bust, a proaction sponsored by the pride of

the harpies’ herpes’ blah-blah pest
creepy Kali’s bad hairdo
limping Procrustes’ dream of sharp (Eng. Guillotin)
Socrates’ water mellon-scented theodorant
the dandy of collaboration, Virgil Dante andante’s splitting of the split to rule
Sigmund Frau(d) chanting a chatty hymn to castrology
Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin

You, navel gazing, world grazing, flat water drinking half-beast, your world coincides with comfort. Its bottom line is now your ground and daffodildo. No brain, one vote. We are we and you shut up! Fake shines clean as topless tops and everything’s already translated. You landed on the wrong side of the mirror, shipwrecked right on ego beach. That’s something, that we aren’t something. Again the living come undone, again the undead done with. This acephalic supplement – the world. Bliss 101 shakes its map under you. Nothing, for the second time, just to count up to the infinite, to rack it up against the rain. Poetry died on Joveday; today’s forever Friday, part part, part excess in the cesspool of freedoms. More goniometrico, 1 is all [the –1s], the roughian, the bureau-bully dressed in torero, the Dasein of the Tartars hiding on high

heavens
deutsche vita
ancestors who die before midnight
shacks made of their bony names
It’s been one unabated thousand months since the Dadaeast descended from Habsurd Traumania. La juivessance d’Ubucharest slid counterclockwise on Swiss sloppies where Volterre coughed, an albatross stuffed with the merdified consonants’ solo. The war wouldn’t stop but the moontains bled – once – in counterpointed hormony. Rosie had it rosy, Mousie had it simple, few had it rawmantic, but the Dadaeast’s excitable tympanum heard the cure of moral hymens. Thereforish, this recentenary was wrested to the ground

days in retox
lard on the knobs
fish yelling off the wall
eyes, sh! popping for gross cherries

The top hat’s whip saddened time and closed off this story – a/gain – the machines’ souls fart their way away from fauve favellas and the future. Line ups of erections march on the Himalayas. Busy banners of kitsch causes manufacture flaccid wind. What hops’ called hope – no ad, no hoc – the real was what cringes now to be somewhere else. Too late to be but latent, too PoMorific to be real, too taken by the bureaucrafts, the species’ fate sealed off the memory of the myriad dead.

In all the futures spilling from this present Alice will be a receptionist.
In all the futures Sisyphus, high on Shestovsterone, will carry buckets of cognac to Camus.
The soldiers will be soldiers will be soldiers to have a so-so time behind the spear.
Dollars will keep greening nature, grey theory won’t bloom.
Numbers will count to numb.

Only a bilabial lullaby for Alice’s tris-hairdo, to cavort with monsters to abort: human nature is animal culture is a prostitute become a spy.


Scratch all that

1 scratch all that
2 itch from scratch
3 do this
1 fill in the blanks through which the species fell to the ground
2 replace the mirror’s hot air with mustard gas
3 swallow Calvin’s iron fluff
4 co-coït on the outside o’nest
5 don’t add to the united ersatzes of the world, “don’t quote!”
6 give the enigma an enema
7 fleshhhhh
8 tuck god between her tits
9 make the novel choke on poetry
10 kill noircissism
11 top the topless