The Daily Fix

The second time. It’s an IUD lodged in your gluttonous craw pregnant with poison. A cinderblock in your cervix turning you into a paperweight. Sue indigestion and tied hands to the indolent signpost, its home the traffic island. Time-lapse. Blur of lights. Buzzsaw infantry of quizzical punctuation party to membrane arson. Rush to the sink to throw up again, but this time be sure not to get any pearls of vomit entangled in your halo. Vision, lurch back to the old stomping grounds of the skin stretched over mismatched cheekbones in a glass. Pore over the loving recreation in burnt hemispheres with those grimy opera glasses. Permission to deflect rays of light around the linoleum granted. Then push off and float across wind-swept plains of crumpled tissues and little orange space vessels with their white caps bestrewn floorwards to nebulous mass of bedding. Scratch with tongue. The dry taste.

Metallic zephyrs playing supercollider tag with cirrus clouds of red pinpricks set to an effervescent, smirking ragtime zip that skips and loops points offstage; the giant petulantly banging his balled-up fists on walkmen. To this: does it look forward? Orientation pornography for a dedicated cartographer (he punched the clock until it was lying on the floor bleeding and it wasn’t moving anymore and then he
hunched himself fetally and cried to himself that it was unfair, nobody had ever been given any choice over the matter and it all had come to this) that gnawed at the nervous system secretively and et the man’s innards and spat out the gristle and bone through his own mouth. His wife and children never knew. And when the birds started singing, it was all gone. Forever.

little bird’s nest in a gurney
was flutter at all? not a grin.
thereafter altogether journeyed
through it flecks a manhole’s grin.

touch it, such it is as goes
just mete and speak and let.
the little butlers on ice floes
still to gone and there are let.

Well, the problem’s solved for now by just switching to a default template. This is evil bullshit, blog.com. There should probably at least be some kind of email notification.

It says “monthly transfer limit exceeded,” as you can see. This is ugly. I kind of hate it.

Checkered tablecloths don’t always mean Italian restaurants, and neither does this smoky saloon full of murderous dagoes. Help! I need somebody! Help! I need anybody! To pull the checkered tablecloth from out of my mouth where it was acting as a hastily-crafted gag and then call the police on the Italians that have bound me up and even now as I feverishly imagine typing these words dance about me lighting tiny fires with the candles attached to the cuffs of their pant-legs! Heh-eh-elp! This is the point of no return. After being sued into the ground by Surr Paul McCartney for using his timeless, precious lyrics that are a treasure and testament to all humanity, whiskey will come quicker than legal counsel and legal counsel quicker than water. I didn’t type a “q,” and then I didn’t type a “u,” and now it’s saying that didn’t isn’t a word but it is and so is “isn’t,” but it says that’s not a word either which is a terrible quandary to be in for a writer that says so many negative, awful, mean, nasty, disgusting, terrible things like me, because I only say bad things all the time EVER even though when I write the subject matter is usually fairly inoffensive. I guess at face value most of the things I SAY OUT LOUD could offend at people when taken out of context or around the corner be herded Alps. But that’s okay, because only an idiot is earnest, and Ernest is an idiot! Have you seen the one where he goes to prison? The pope. I haven’t spoken of the Pope in a while, although he was one of the villainous Italians that stole my wallet inside the saloon. The thing about the Pope is that he never says hello, and it’s not ever one hundred percent sure that he is or isn’t lying or just trying to make a joke when he shows you the little pope. It always starts the same way. He sits on his chair…

If you tied a bunch of skinned apples together so that they made a rhyming statement about the papacy, it would be a roped pome pope poem.

There’s been a recent outbreak of synaesthesia sweeping the insensate pineal glands of youths, which coerce colors to stir frenziedly against eachother in some type of reproduction of copulative functioning… although certainly there’s no hope of palettes getting it on all groovy-like in the night, while painters sleep. The word “sleep” comes off the fingers like “sheep,” although I do understand there are more than etymological and clerical differences in that of the z’s and the ewe. For one, a sheep must be regularly juiced for its excretions in a gigantic pulping machine, and sleepery must not be attained while this process is self-fulfilling; sheep do not enjoy being overly pulped. Indeed, it’s been often suspected in some circles that sheep look upon being squozen in excess with disdain. Hence, combative efforts are often taken to insulate the pressed-sheep community from the dangers of two-dimensional lifestyles, often taking the form of gigantic skewers. Once the life’s been skewered from their limp little corpses, the sheep behave in exemplary fashion, no matter how hard-pressed they are. I couldn’t even begin to think of how to depict this entire process, however, so you’ll have to come up with some type of mental imagery, reader.

Is it to talk to one’s self if one speaks to one’s toenails as they are being cruelly rendered asunder from their calcified nests? One must wonder this as one babbles at the diminutive flotilla in one’s toilet, pre-vortex.