The Daily Fix

so even though few thoughts make sense to you, those orderly little bunnies are going to drive you from the path of unreason? what kind of nonsense does that make, i wonder? the only lyrics that haven’t been written by somebody else are those which you’re too busy not busying your gilded cage with. turn off the news. go outside. fuck somebody. this isn’t really going to work, unless your little lizard brain can magically turn into something more than a sensor for what is and isn’t. it’s fifty-fifty, right down the line, in your life. look at it that way. i like it. i don’t like it. this makes sense. this doesn’t make sense. well, what if is and isn’t are beside the point, oil-slick styled vichysoisse man? your nut must be white-russian-soaked wood if your only fallacy is your complete and utter lack to compute fifty percent of everything. let’s try to compute less, shall we? 3 out of six is bad, i’m here to tell you. understanding isn’t subjective or objective, it simply lives in a little cave where everything’s monochromatic, in “different shades.” ambiguity is just another word for stupidity. most definitely, nothing is everything. look at it there. look at tit there. tit, it is looking. go out and get fucked. warts.

You know, children, quite often you’ve mistaken me for a pedophile, even though it would be difficult. Those times we were locked in the closet- quite a mix-up, I can assure you! That pamplemousse in the bloody burgeoning bludgeoned backpack, they were not bombs, it was a severed head all along!

Hunting is hard when they’ve deprived me of mah nasal passages, ain’t that a hoot and a half for my hooter. Cunting is card when they’ve deprived me of mah nasal passages, ain’t that a coot and a calf for my cooter.

there, there, pamplemousse. you should feel better as the day progresses, as the code grows easier to crack by the daylight that drowns itself daily in the windowsill. there will be days when the cat splashes in the brown and grey of the windowsill’s excretions, other days when the dust sparkles and catches your eye in the imaginary yellow (for it’s not truly yellow, is it, pamplemousse, is it? it’s yellow only in your fruity french coloring books). i feel as though i’ve been not born but shat out of that orifice, the window. the hardwood of the sill’s been completely coated with dust, or dandruff. let’s not celebrate it but eat it, so there’s no evidence left. ever.

and it’s not made of sandalwood, or beech, or maple, or cherry, or oak, or varnished with the sputum of the baby, but christened with a bottle of vinegar and loved only by the sad inhabitants of the hospice for the aged and demented who can no longer remember their names or any names; they are so pure. they are not made of sandalwood, or beech, or maple, or cherry, or oak, or varnished with the sputum of the baby, but culled from death’s well. death is dressed in a nixon mask.

And in white and blackly lit paranormal affairs, their final request is made frequently to the unburdened people of the basement who so far have been impervious to the living requiem so gently acted out by all surrounding them. Luminescent columns made of bumblebee excretions have been held overhead handled by grimacing nuns; the time is now but never later. Sleepwalkers wear velvet due to their inability to afford the rudimentary tastes of cancerous minors, the urban dictators who always call but never knock. Sweet Jesus, no?”

    like a lick of lake, lord and lady love lurching linguists, plumb plumb plumb plumb plumb plumb plumb plumb

my lover, my lover, loquaciously lilted:
“though you cry, you’ve ‘only  been jilted
remember, retain retiring recording,”
so quoth i to her, “why won’t you stop whoring?”
 
she sobbed to her napkin, she did testify,
it was not her fault but guilty was i
i sat on the divan, thus did i recline
and exploded in fury, nine nine nine nine

forty and three, or twenty and eight
sixty, sixty, sixty for freight
nine nine nine nine saved time a stitch
so i shot her head, the ungrateful bitch.

-noningestable photogenic imitation blooms. for retail purposes only, unless in AZ or WI…

i was talking to someone about nothing, and suddenly it dawned on me in rosy-fingered increments (har de har har) that inescabaply we rewe klating atoub wto hintgs atht erwe vrey dferifnet.

so this, and this only: i am not here. i am not at this keyboard, i am not in this monitor, i am not a digital reflection of the cool reality that’s been hawked by that screaming hyperlin vendor. i’m not even in the corporeal elements of meness that you’d look at and help to scream a warning for the minors as a landslide of white noise comes sloughing off the five-headed beast of south dakota. i don’t even know why Elsie Shawn wants me to buy viagra. suppose i do, and then naturally some time later they die, and the money has been spent. where was the money, all along? it’s like a rubber ball under a nutshell, you know where it is in between but you don’t know where it is at the beginning and end, really.

you see the ball. but here’s the kicker: the certainty that yes, the ball is there, is it there? when the nutshells are dancing, you’re left on the precipice of suspension of disbelief, like there was a ball at all. there wasn’t a ball. it’s not even red pigment on a hallucinatory dish. there simply was nothing there, ever, in physical presence. teddy told me that the ball was real, but my mind was not, and i counter the ball is as unreal as my mind can  make it. so suppose. just suppose N’gwala Unyole was to recieve my million-dollars in his bank account. play pretend i bludgeoned the person sitting to my left to death with my bare fists, stomping on the face until there was a good coating of blood and saliva on my sneakers. it is just as real as me doing it, except you aren’t and i didn’t. so where did the blood and saliva come from?

have you ever noticed that q and p are a discontented couple? always lying with their little backs to one another. they’ll never be married, for of what use is a word with them together? who would read it? even in phraseology, there’ll always be that space between them in pop quizzes, sharp quills and shrimp quesadillas. they’ll look at each other from a distance blankly, admiring one another’s curves. mind your p’s and q’s, for they won’t do the same.