FORCE-THE-EDGES

Free writing is better than totalitarian writing any day. Used up tooth decay midgets will try and convince you they still fall out of the sink every morning, but don’t let powdered intestine throwing become a daily habit forming snake of utter despair. Even on yellow days of the week, you can still see flightless rodents crawling along the vertical horizon line, and what an unusual formation of frictional claymation politician hijackers.

As it walked, it became the ground, and soon the planet was walking on the universe. Smile, you just bent our timeframe the wrong way until slithering was just an exercise in squid harvesting. This and others will come naturally to the newly penetrated eye. Worsening the scab will only contain more larva. Don’t react…

Sort of inflicted is all we are. Others will soon. How can we ever reach the ground when landing is a char-broiled head that wishes chipmunks could just get on with their lives? Scratch off three peoples’ faces and see if you’ve won. After all, this is, and why not just?

Everything is crazy-real. Filling our crevices with slaves is a predictable potential, having less to do with the slithering moth tactics. Shivers of madness I know all too well. Come less into the fire, and more into the flame, and you shall receive inner loss at the snap of a belt. Everything is ultra-marketed, to the point of being undesirable. Let us adjust these windows until they are glass ceilings and then wait for the meteor shower. By the way, your mom’s face is actually an alien sucking device.

Never mind our ancestors, let us jump each other on every street corner. Our pocket change turns to fungus as we morph and strike and morph back and wonder what happened. Did I lose the battle of no blood? Yesterday was a peach, but today will be the rotten maggot core breach of anonymity. Next time you see a cop, spill your meat and proclaim your right to open fire on any anthill, no matter how small, because fuck, man, artillery is its own excuse in your crumbling little head of mousetraps and depression knots.

Abort this mission, this quarantined sector of land massive. They are holding your insight at the nearest bank. They are hoping you wouldn’t notice the growing amount of wrinkles and scars and gravitational woe each new day. They are hoping the clones can pass as normal people for a little longer. They, unfurled, having no stench save that of a working class monkey heart (the one we eat at every meal).

Today I saw a man whose face was made of broken glass. Looking around, I saw others like him, expressions like razor sharp emotional static lips. When I look these people in the eye, they just melt at my generosity. And I expect nothing from anybody, except that they will dig the first ditchfull of limbs and human fluids, and when the earth chokes it back up, it will be my bliss and what a fucking riot. When searching, I have no face, and others have no point to make. None that I notice, anyway. It’s the bluest shade of never ever, these hollow larva thoughts that plague this insect colony brain. How about you?