I wanna eat, fuck, and shit america, and it’s my face the world is sitting on as I write this. The electric guitar spilled all over my tits got sent there for sure cos like a real motherfucker barks like a dog as he wolfs on down the raw egofuck. Mountains of tender pussy finesse scrape the barrel of MY understanding punctuated threats of novel sparse and no deep meaning. Free pussy on the trembling airplane, it crashes into disaster spillage and no more sleep for big money fuckwad whose thorough pagedness frisks my burden electrical outside of giant dickdouche time maze. My real world yr astronomical astonishment closed eyes to the black gulf sentiment that ashes up all yr eyeballs. Sleep gives me drumkit hard-on knock my head on concrete block to smell the real stars striped on my conal ambivalence sphere this is how we goddamn construct the real. NO ONE is safe and no one wants to be, be my enemy and I will celebrate you into the cement, jam a metal pole up my conscience and watch as I spew out a recycled vocabulary of constants. Puke unarmed vigilance into the mourning robe of cerebral violent apathy. The REAL motherfuckers all know perfectly well what they’re doing when they starve the innocents. Isn’t that a nice private sphere of dwelling

until the wrong race invades it and you are suddenly forced to confront all those dark brown fears that have been necessary to keep you going all these wasted years. All the goddamn regurgitated garbage that’s kept you alive swinging corpselike from the flagpole a flaccid trophy called guilt. There is no silence that is a law I can taste. Lost in ethereal abandonment of precepts hounded morale barking fucked hypertrophy at sound of electric saw cutting into metal sheet. I think about fucking a poodle a lot less than ludic conceptions of democracy haunt my intrepid on a hot red night the LA cuff of dawn. Magnets splayed out in the coital hemisphere, politicians’ brainspans display on LCD monitor – direct visions of trapezoidal lemming paths melt backwards right before molten begets explosion. Terror suspects masturbating behind concrete walls, threat of hammer at least gives breathing room to the non-cause of life, laser booby trap pre-elucidates all possible becomings, which’re strings of wire formatting electric hammock. Whore of all death penalty inmates makes important announcement over prison intercom: the time of aridization has arrived. As I compromise this grecious slab of lucidity, name me a single prophet whose corporate interests have raped apart my own. Bald eagle squawking twatless through a sky fall down dead and poisoned the night air maniacal the gallon fart of justice. Drug war czar hermaphrodites rebuke the slowness of today’s meritocracy. Eating

the stockbroker’s cock for breakfast each morning, she started to feel a patriotic fervor that eventually led her home to christ. I am a goddamn hot dog called america, rubber chicken. Justice will only be served by falling down killing yrself in the eye of the tornado, entire waves of fuck trespassing yr being which flips and fleets like pages torn from a glossy fashion mag a catholic bishop in north korea. Athletic pick-me-up and fuck my brains out with a crashed car bumper that folds up inside my dearest membrane luv and circular fries tomorrow like a curious goblin cunt whose hairs lied to the public investigator last friday. Not caring about sleep, loving the paranoia that fries yr brains as memories of the loudness that once deified yr ambitions gutlauded you into chaos breakbreathing down yr backbrace – you became a mummy the moment you started to manipulate. How can one look at the world and call it a culture. Baked yr logic in a thin soup that forgot all about elevation and instead shat you out all the effectuality you once fantasized limiting yr intestines spewed out in a shopping spree cart whose shape rhymed with this most putrid of lights shining in yr diamond dishonesty. Shuddered like the day’s design NO SCATTER pieces like a suicide bomber’s mantelpiece this my god solidify DEATH’S DESIGN. Twitchy folds american faggotry owns no tyrants except locked in stead with outer world’s ambitions, suicide, to fuck and die in america looks tough. A flower bent over like silhouettes last dream’s logic. Dolorous streams of bicentennial fuckery scream “no future” at the public abortion gravesite, no shadows cast mean bloodsuckers constitute the majority today, cock in a light socket seen as final option like a midnight scream ingrained in armchair fabric dead and magnified suicide glamour the radiance of shit lessons in deadness that dematerialize yr brain as you go through it, soft and lost and tenuous to the shatterings of former bone structures, victims’ remains lost to the shame broadcast. Merging loads of fuck with stealth and hyperturbulence. I’m feeling designed today because being alive there’s no other way. Hold on the fence I’m sorry a passive bitchfuck that makes us all insane, toxic, a clown senator bounces on a rifledildo war machine, bitterness table sold to us at discount settlement site forever off-center. Feral kid roaming the streets at night in a city that just ate him. Constancy is shielded and then no one. Shopping redundancy is a snakepit made of silver feudal sparks term cradled intelligent and fucked less, the wicked battery spins. Here comes the last breath of honesty the world in its perennial self-slaughter is willing to take on, all those walking corpses and a neurotic strain of decay waving like a beauty pageant queen at the loyal deserters whose army remains scarred and unpaid. There is NOTHING to be deserving of and no losses only a handsome visual feast that screams with the silence in yr eyes and leaves us trapped intrepid victims of the emotion economy, recycling feces and globular animosity. No mystery and none that can satisfy the metal tube’s craving for melting into lightness, called up by the wreck mirror and serve yr country until you are martyred gruesome, whose greatness is that, the awning is garbage, burn self up and fucked like falling, the tower that watches watching will secure yr ride to the next gatecrash tragedy until there is no more yesterday worth fighting.