SMOKE SIGNALS FROM A BURNING CENTIPEDE: Manhole lid handcuffs stifle blacktop cadence. Throat song mimics your soul being hanged at the gates of a hollow Gehenna. Innocence is arson is innocence. A conscience true to dread. The best friends i've ever had i've me through taxidermy. Canker spores smearing omnisexual gelatin like a puzzle ready to wear so it can't help but be solved. Centipede effigy fragrance welcomed with wilding inhales. Scorpions are the rubber of my intestine tread. I thought we were legion. "Only when the jade will back". Hive-eye locked on the burning from whence it came. I play every face because occasionally it's better being someone else, even if it's always me.
Friday, April 11, 2008
I'm thinking of you. You're standing in the middle of a busy street near a train station at rush hour. crowds of colorful automobiles and walkie talkie meat pass by in alternating slow and fast motion. You are nude except for a pair of steel-tipped black boots. You are wielding a giant Gatling gun, comic-book exaggerated in its size and cylinders. You are firing wildly into the crowds, slowly spining in circles as if the gravel had formed into a rotating platform beneath your feet. Your smiling with the kind of satanism that reveals so-called "satanists" to be the limp dick posers they truly are. The only audible noise over the machine whir of your weapon and the endless car-bomb detonations is that of your coos and giggles, which refuse to be dampened by the screaming crib death of the cinder children.