Do you know that there are birds in the skies at all times? Day and night, constantly. They linger and weep and call my name. I branch off into paddles and fast-forward the bow ties.
Build your own mollusk out of sinuous fleshy troughs.
I wear a hat made of steel and smoke a mahogany pipe that is sixteen inches long.
I borrowed a dollar from George Washington, and he squinted his eyes so tightly that I could see all the folds of his flabby fat face. He unhinged his jaw and let out a deafening bellow that wedged itself comfortably into the inner canals of my face. Then he told me the following thing: "Boy, you are a partitioned corpuscle, a flaming slab of tough dough." I delivered a fat punch to his jaw that sent him flying over the freshly painted fence, up, up, up, over the trees and mountains and airplanes, into oblivion.
I murdered a fertile chestnut and named a church after my grandpa, so shove that into yer smokin' device 'n' inhale the smoke produced.
Milk crates hurdling down the rows of metal teeth, shredded into a million skeletal fragments and formed back into the shapes of milk crates.
Trap doors give way to alternate time gaps exploding with novelty.
Wake up on the living room couch, don't know what day it is, take a shower, brush teeth, lift handle of baker's rack until it expels fuels in all directions, enraptured particular cylindrical dynamic hexagonal shrouds, little tundras resting beneath their eyelids, bargaining for eruption, tilting the plane until the freight trains evaporate into the atmosphere.
I rode my bicycle to the store, hoping to gain nutrients from basted blanched chestnut powder. I limp along until someone lifts me up, I have only seen him once before, he merges into the ground and a tree grows in his place. Decaying mallard, ruptured eagle trough, crusted pulpit tendons, Arnold's metal loop.
My legs have caught fire; I need some help. Billiard balls germinating within wise old barrels filled with fat tumbled rolls of thick crunchy grass.
Trembling grits and unparalleled biopsies. Boiled hands and ornate silver hats.
Throbbing cerebral walls, formulaic sponge equipment. Bill, I brought all of the boxed boxes for us to fold and hold. We're going to have a nice laid back evening with cones and a bowl of flesh.
These sagging barrels of molasses won't hold out much longer in this damp, corrosive weather.
These sagging barrels of molasses won't hold out much longer in this damp, corrosive weather.
Barren robust trench, cowardly sprocket.
And here we have Bill "The Cellist" Andrews on the cello, peeling back infinitely nested layers of flesh to reveal his majestic orbiting jaw bones and other special secret slats.
Crested angelic porcupine, subtle tremulous hammer.
I ascended the warbling core and achieved even parsnip distribution.
Treat me the way you'd treat a bag of bags. I adore your bangles and rice hats, your sandy scarves and tenuous mandibles.
My palms just generated several excellent membranes. Bravo!
These are the last days, I'm telling you. We reside in dark chambers, and before we know it we will be consumed by fibrous hands and whisked off down rippling fiery passages.
I have wedged my frail body into countless crevices. I spend afternoons in bed, sipping hot chocolate and whittling symmetrical faces out of tree branches.
Prandled pork-glass.
