Doing exactly forever meat candy’s highest intention justifies killing lamentable men numbering over pillions. Questions remaining state to under-veteran if x’ing your zillions” A camper skidding the expensive fringe of cafe culture, all the way down to the last drips with no action. Manipulating what capacity I have these clothes are too nice for me to labor manually except for sexually. My potential mind leaks a bit as it travels. Freedom to me means being away from situations that imprison my mind or body in any way. Imprisonment to me is the inability to move or express oneself without limit; a framework of contrary reactions demonstrated by my legally assigned partner to my actions of felicity within the relationship constitutes an imprisonment. The condition of dizziness that I also endure is imprisonment because I cannot bicycle- the necessary mode of travel in this economically depressed state. The route to greater freedom is money- I need only ask to be denied. Maybe the shot is long but sure- this thong is zeroed. We take the super-tankers personally. When I see four of them setting up a tic-tac-toe board this mnemonic seems to say that “if we both act rationally and play our turns to the game’s end the will be a draw-no winner and no loser.” And I wouldn’t mind this prophylactic comment except for the pervasive tales of the spirally nano machines that join the dust in your streets and in my victuals’s luggage. But we’re owned winking cattle munching on green money and drinking juice off the grid. I like my green hot so I switch from one ineffable commodity into a comprehensible fungible.

Unable to connect to my own mind, prickled and impaled on the dictated natterings of others This checkered disgust that has grown like dishes forces me to pull apart so forcefully from you that I would not directly express the existence of an “us” except that we are spitefully entwined like the vipers of the cadueces. The last tendril of dollar flickers its nasty tongue and disppears. The cat and I glare.

I retched an old lunch leftover that my martyr sent during my first few days under fire in the revolution to legalize chocolate. I dug the lunch out of my car where I had kept it since confiscating in from her. My mechanic may have been manipulating my garden. Like every other scrap of evidence that she could piece together, it proves that the fault of the monstrosity lies purely and singly in me. The top of the lunch was labeled in firm, large handwriting of blue ink. The letters of my name, then the sun, my infantry assignment battalion, casket number and the slinky acronym of my resistance troupe. I searched the handwriting for the angular concern that my mind prefers today but aught I found. My words from the pleasure front of battlers are ingratiation and innuendo. I gasp quietly at the frank and revealing little drawing that I had done. The free play of the unconscious knows how little quarter my martyr gives to artists. In the bottom corner of the page, her contrary mind in mine scours the autograph for an admission against which to level an accusation. House paranoia under full shared computing and combining our passwords the data becomes impure and reverses our culpability for the zag of communications somewhat, given my schisms. The Con prize-periphery begins feeding the center with parallel chatter. The broker comes on shortly and the table flips down. The mood recovery package includes sluice ride coverage with forensic deferment.

They zoom down to a sub-molecular level and determine which direction the electrons are laying as they compose the flake of the molecule. Taking the time to analyze the organism they decide to add it to their list of possible suspected witnesses to the eternal banal. This banality has affected the completely accomplished members of the data suffrage community in just such a way that they cannot forget its irony. How do these comedians arrive at the con-angles? What agency authorizes their brand of humor? In my case, readers, it is a numbers thing and is not more mysterious than the process of driving a slow transport between distant cities. The word counter is my little odometer and I’m just ticking away the markers, thinking about my psychedelic market list. The proportion of groceries that I’ve consumed lately would shame the obesity club. But I’m quite narrow. these diaphanous delicacies don’t stick to the rib so much as they twist the humors…this writhing occurs in relation to the volume of irony and/or unresolved dichotomy in one’s upbringing.
The chirping of the birds sounds like a hardcore personal epitaph, e-delivered with the slam of a door. Working your cloud waifs rather anomalously, as it seems from the calm of the tarmac, I finally look and discern your skytoon. I know its bad for my eyes and my mind. The images are highly suggestive and the ultimate in unobtainable. An agglomeration equidistant with reality makes a seamless but contrary quip using anything significantly- with endless ingenuity and irony. They are trying to unseat my concentrated quietude using their privileged knowledge. The illustrations they pose as omniscient weather aerosols combine all too seamlessly with the actual synchronistic comment of the one true universal intelligence. A discerning observer can tell them apart howe’er- because even though they can control the shape and movement of the clouds with nano-dispersion electro-magnetically intermingled with the natural inevitable other dusty airborne mass, the uniform and coherent magneto-wave forms that surround the apparitions lack the sincerity of actual clouds.

With the cheerful countenance of an older man who enjoys the subtle notes of detergent combined with his predilection for cock blockery- everybody, both Dick Importunado and I, know what the chemical companies are doing to use the flavor of this blockery to their advantage. They put an epidermal adhesive molecule that reaches the olfactory most cunningly, resulting in a brand preference connected to maintenance of permanent farmlatio.

At least five transmitters surround me with their pentacle at all times, no matter where I move amongst this continental geography. These jibe my mind to dissemble, or urge it to concentrate, depending on their program incentives, the bank warp balance, and my rank within the hermetic galactic ranking. This galactic ranking is local but far exceeds the centralized access capabilities of the subject planet, and the star-cloud computer-stored data is read by a timely scan of the universal intelligence. All the “whens” were once changed to “ifs” and were incompletely restored. An “I deserved it then” kind of manifest destiny attitude with a minimum of coupons proves pivotal. mixed chaotic zealous hypocritical environment. elsewhise I have specifically identified cloud cover, or lack thereof, to engender certain specific mass behaviors across locally economized customers. “The raw native conditions of the planet are what we have- thereat our aviation-based technologies are applied discretely by expert contractors, pending the existence of conducive atmospheric conditions…”

The import of irrelevant peripheral stimuli takes on a slightly friendlier, more cooperative tone of cipher. Some initiatives, though vainly wanted by the fascia of the hallucination transmitter control room, cannot be furnished among the many on the ground by their purveyors arcing between. If an agitative objector within their network’s sphere of influence is too successful or unruly to ignore, the arrayed medias tune in concert against that agent’s sanity, as clearance-enabled operators within the data interface pique the song lists and advertising slant to agitate their layered personalities. Their smarmy sub-audible broadcast of paranoias and invectives clarifies the crack and static of them thoughts to a solvent humming rang. I am the bad calculus mounting. My mother’s mind is made- mom’s man is a made maid- my many misalliances make martyr’s mind morbidly mad. Mean mayhem is monotheism on mother’s mind. My morals are minimized. The transmitter silently urges me to act like the type execrated by the standard.

The rain filtering through the trees taps like many voices on the roof of my ultra-low income housing. I feel your tires snaking through the puddles to report my location.
Why do I feel at home in this cemetery when the magnetically contorted sky uses the sunset as a blasphemous screen of thin bought clouds?
Why do steaming comparisons of mind with known provocateurs circulate so? I claim that the power and pain unleashed in this quantum acting gig will free me from my sorrowful bonds of permanent farmlatio- until then regard me as the hobbled species of humanity that I am.

Shopping just above the lower central terminus of the city of the dead, we join by the coincidence of my becoming stranded. Here we sit facing the gate and the wildness beyond. The transcript of a living law evolving and regressing simultaneously, numinous concern for my appearance delays my stunted gait. This dirt I check on my blood is benign and inert compared to life’s virus- you arrive reportedly trapped in our sharp lack of partnered shopping- stinging now in the dearth of un-craven plans to present themselves for accomplishing this objective. The work of the living is a secret on the weather. The substance of any complaint is the duality- the mimicry. It is like a bedsore in mind from being at my own futuristic graveside. I will commit to you momentarily but if this weather shifts, and our mood changes then our conscious association may terminate.
Do these cross-hairs make my profile look confusing? I gotta telegraph my moves a little better so they can line me up- I find this criminal-ism necessary as part of the inspiration for my act- to uncertain results- Martyr recommends patronizing retailers with an eye toward learning their corporate practices and mimicking them in my intellectual and spiritual life, thereby to profit.

Um, It wasn’t clear from their literature if the factory is nano-sized or if the factory produces nano-sized products. Now the nano-factories come out on chips, with exemplary women presenting them, so clients know where they’re at. Now the Nano-cartel is running Wall St. Their patsies, the citizens reporting their weather are divorced from the true dowsing practice of meteorology. They say what they’re told and point sweepingly for pay. The strange confusion borne into my forecast by their threat to consciousness. “Crossed the cross? Cross the cross all you will.” The absent howling weather encumbers the blankness of my disenfranchisement- but my long established habit is enveloped cryptically. They shop me further toward less necessary franchises, that I might conspicuously display the apparent ability to spend openly in that sector. The retailer they’re subliminally recommending features an sub-integrated commodity distributor so that stalwart browsers snuffling the durable merchandise for the possibility of live interaction can hide behind the affluent facade of purchasing temperature-sensitive trifles. I go casually with purpose to those that I would possess in whole or become not in part- to acquisit my little snack with a mix of directness and pronounced detachment, all the while embarrassed by the brazen story outlined on my brow. that story- overseen and executed by possessors of extreme pulchritude. Our Society event- this beverage transaction- ah- and here comes Dick, known as a clown- one of comedy- but being in fact- a demon. The bank warp employs this Dick- the demon of comedy.
Now that I have purchased evidence of my ability to consume conspicuously, in that way that must say that the cost amount meant nothing to me- and was of absolutely no consideration- I seize upon an interesting durable; leafily it asks “how to architecturally restrain Dick if his fear of imprisonment is negated by a growing desire for free access to captive blob-jax?” It goes: On account of a rumor- that seven generations have passed since a cosmically pivotal deception culminated in a legendary betrayal- Dick seeks to spill mind and guts of an ephemeral prey-” I discontinue consuming the durable’s sample and return to my hot commodity. I know our fucking deal, our methods and modes. If you know what they’re after you for, don’t look. Because they told you that you were not light but dust, a finer version of dirt- and that you were here permanently and not temporarily-I start parking strange places.. Half the sky darkens and half lightens while your charge accumulates. Drawing the necessary density from one section of towering cloud friction using your network of electromagnetically conductive hallucination transmitter towers. In the irony of his wisdom he made you to be especially stubborn against this fact: that your animal in pain so bright is not made of dirt but of water and light. My name is running with blood and I linger pissing thereby at night. Dick counts my cups and my blocks my cock before I walks to the tree, ever too indiscreet. That sour biting inability to pee in public again. Couldn’t I walk to a less precious adornment of nature amongst their silent telling architecture? The projecting h than having the light pursue them and confront them with deepening shadow the entire second hemisphere of the trip. I’m feeling the positive and negative intersession. You’s pass around the secret name of your vegetable vengeance. “It is one thing to have a morbid diet, its another to eat upon it. But what if it is tinged all through with the flavinoids of Eros? Dick emergeth from his hole in the wall.
He swaggers out, and begins polishing a fence post at the edge of the bank warp parking lot. Dick’s tight little buttocks prance custodially, accomodating his perverse rages. These he flies into, Over the both of us blocking our cocks and spraysin the cross. Among the franchises we am all out of free lunch. I see food driving by anonymously. But nearer the graves nature offers it. “withal this fast food and masturbation, Dick, the demon of comedy, has stalked us to the extreme. It has contrived to deceive, entice, and flatly outwit at critical junctures. And that when for my defense I demand “produce the videotape” said evidence is presented, precisely implicating me in a conviction of guilt. What makes Dick a demon is that his comedy supply places me as the butt of all the jokes. Unmitigated interest is taken in producing material from damage that I suffer-all the while I suffer for material. To maintain that aura of demonism over his regiment, an un-amalgamated group of average looking elitists all of whom belong to Dick and his intelligence and data gathering/ analysis/ review agency- “Tha Phallocrats” Nightly they overlook the employee’s online entertainment selections with derisive glee. The pornographic selections in question are compared to a database of concomitant deviations and predilections, and by these characterizations the employee psychological profile is cast for the group and he receives such bewildering titles as ” ? ”

“All your life you adhere to the Phallocratic Standard, and then one day ya idealize a sunset and you’re a Western Standardist?” The worst of aphorisms struts in like a parable. An expensive private patrol vehicle slows, attempting to intimidate me out of my box on the lot. The PTSD I suffer from DMT is an advanced form of time travel sickness. Is my disease damning? Is my destiny diseased? The rumor is that Crosstianism is a phallocentric cult of personality set up to enhance the profits of the weather consortium and the death-belief racket fund…What is the hermetic order of the public? Seeing that my archetype within the hallucination is one subject to communal execration the words of a bad song cling to my voice. The message is a jumbled greeting that is addressed to me and is from my Martyr. It is a refrain of hatred disclaiming her culpability- her guilt in bringing about the shut-down. Now it is granted. This quiet place for my sober reflection and genuine detailed explanation of my actions issues from these pithy inscriptions- over which both of our fingertips have traced decades apart and unsuspecting of one another until this, the very latest- when I am exposed with shame- I share with you the story from this place, situated upon the heavenly precipice to and fro hell. The path to this spot is easy to travel but not so obviously marked. One can infer from the feel of the place what the deal is. A very ugly beauty is furnished indeed. Beyond the tame mountains of the horizon rises a sprinkle of smoke from the garbage fire at the site of the siege.
This estate along the seaward flow of the bank warp, that we are passing nearby is my lost ancestral home. A loser still, close by floats this mist of dispersion. The sky has changed habits since our shack was here- silver stubby roaches scrape the yonder and leave crosses and grids of clouds in their wake.

At rest, the demon waves its torrid fact. Alighting hilarious allegations, an eternal roster- my entire spirit is bent upon cadueces of embarrassment and pain. Dick spake over me with an expert sensory intelligence. The blasphemies the demon rumors of comedy are of the utmost truth concerning me.

“there is that one fucking song there, you know the tune, every time it comes on- doesn’t matter if I’m down at trucker’s, over on the tiller- wherever- yer head down and soaking the bar. These punch-lines- silent lyrics publicly illustrating this or that- right then and there- to those present in possession of the necessary fore-knowledge-ensure that I am in harmony with this suffering. The jokes, as they are, attune me to the leagues of irony seething through the comedic demonic import of reality. This reality is an import, not an export; for it is beyond- and does not go out from me but surrounds and pierces animal stuff with an irony to the spirit spark.
The phone is to ring, so I jump and stare. It goes dark and the fire splits crackling. There is only slight want of chemical accent’ure in the worst form, that of sucrose excitements.
The filmy neglige of my last hope came tearing off in an cosmically articulated “no” of lightning over the full moon, I feel the heat rise behind your discussion. The insects put needles to my blood. The blood puts needles to my mind’s insect. Ghosts crowd the bright shadows . The lit phone is another’s ambition and campiness calling to ape, bemoan and dim my own.
I glimpse that my journey for potential shopping intersects the demon’s selection of sky meat. I cajoles me as I pass. They are there in death, waiting in some promised certainty for me.
Along my solitary little parade route, a warty and portly, wavering rabble beckons their belonging to inevitability- their cosmic separation from and joinder with munching houses.
What is necessary? is for men of good aim and strong weed- to resolve upon a plotted course for the repair of the state. And An armed media arm of walker-talkies to uphold the media needs of the campaign?

you see how they do it- news story after news story seeming to lead to and from one another in agreement

As my spirit is bent upon a cadeuces of embarrassment and pain. As some kind of practitioner the demon jibbers over me evidence of my descent from it, as it is my grand father.

See the full moon and feel the heat rising behind this discussion. The insects put needles to my blood. Ghost scrowd the bright shadows. The lit phone is another’s ambitious campiness calling to ape my own. Immediately the demon of comedy in a mimicry of manly babyhood says “don’t mind me- something wrong with my brain- I’ve got to get this off before I die.”

The demon of comedy has supplied my acquaintance among the living with the fundament of my distractions. The conference in a control room where various tools and advantages are furnished. It might be fun but I cannot decide. Constellations of discussion flash. It is a white cow of lightning beyond the trees. it is warm but not hot. I suspect how the demon operates and why it has a loitering interest in me. i wish I had a mellower pattern of shirt to wear. meanwhile the demon listens, watches, cajoles, suggests, and praises from a jaggling agenda. According to the build specifications of an overarching punch-line of universally gripping irony. It directs, deflects, instructs, deceives, accepts and multiply redoes the opposites of all things.

Now the pain of my potential undoing meets the limits of my ability to exist. The crumbled wall of my vaporous reserve- the multiple discounts I conceive to award myself access to the standard when I am disconnected beneath it enticing as only vagrant latent bits of criminality can when these manifest by serendipity in one’s manifest of possible actions. It is like a little opportunity and negotiation session when the demon of comedy speaks to my mind at the edges of noise. It says just now “Bigger Niche! Switch its back!”

this Dick is most fascinated with secrets, and these most hide glowing red in criminality and sexualizies. Phones ring. I jumps and stare. Offer of hilarity from the stuff and substance of my self’s legend, hoverin along the borders and parameters of numbers of people- astride their communications and ideations. Most shun all but the most confidential commerce with the demon’s all inclusive wit. Me though? It bends coupons of the purest backward cupidity upon me, according to the Western Standard. The phone goes dark and the fire spits cracko. Those who enjoy or accept direction, tax, and benefit from the demon of comedy have its perspectives and opinions in harmony with their own apparent character.( One’s own apparent character can be anything suitable to the continuation of a particular peculiarity or pulchritude.) If one is some comfort enabled of some quite being of quality then this demon of comedy has total awareness of all my information and is attached to my thoughts like a permanent liaison, employed as a contractor for a karmic collections and balance amendment agency. The prompt cajolery paid vengefully, as it is, serves the industry of collections in that it stimulates evasion. If one has some invidiously obtained apparent character in view for manifestation by one’s self, the wit of this being is bent upon or o’er You-s, strictly depending on the actual balance with the warp. “Take up that observation post all you like. The inner ghost? The battle ground? Its your ass.”+ The alignments and fluctuations of strugglers within and without points with the rattling humors of constancy and poignancy- to a plethora of firm examples. You know how when you’re all seasick from being inside the windowless box on the tide as it rises and falls, and all these dizzy pocks rise out of your face and you are them there, with their scaly unpleasantness- rocking about on a heel deciding if that rising saliva is really the real deal. To these I would object but for the albatrossy parastaltic hypocrisy. Objects and excepts “‘Twas emulation for art- I’m no Phallocrat- calibrated ahead of the magnet east of the Western Standard, as it is…” But that horrible melting core of my spirit spark, with my martyr sheared away and blasted, as a martyr must be-
And as the demon of comedy has for snizz and shadow the angel of sorrows- appearance is often mistaken for its opposite.

The Western Standard is a variably enforced code of coupling and commerce. Amendments are slowly added, and only long application of a reformed standard practice alters popular usage. Popular usage has been broadly defined by the Western Standard as interlocking frontal connector sets. Now they line down to tramp across our hearth, so to speak. The demon’s narrative goes out of my ears, and fades to a seamy obscurity. The exo-port of my brain, these ears, lurking and radiating. The sound of conscientiously expelled reversal signals. Waves of implication stroll through my camp. Where is my cohort? Only these critics- arriving en masse- gathering data for their remarks- are here ignoring my interface by showing no countenance. Mine has not fallen. As is removed only the spirit of the law, the lettering does remain. Look at all this traffic- lovely sailing daily past these gorgeous blood fed pines. Allegations were sketchy- though a certain final count was ascertained. That demon is one shrewd counter, routinely and brusquely quantifying things down to the last hundred thousandth. How do I compensate myself with this demon? An old ghost pips “the livin choose the shortest distance ‘tween the two and proceed directly.”It abandons me when I’m without the grubby fundament. Take my body. I have floated here only partly fucked. The lights and noise and ceaseless linear pissing, in passing- once after another- each piss in passing I seem conditioned to forget. Bales, angles and cages, making poison vapor. I do it too, marooned among them. Passing civilians remark on the cloud of my martial scent. So I pass this beauty on a machine, and the demon asks which I would rather have. I take a long time scanning back and forth from the motor to the booty. The oil of each emanates with a sharp invitation. Don’t think about it too fucking lamely! That is one nice beauty. But those machines are built to endure.

We have your savior faire imprisoned forever! We’ve deployed an imposter so the empire still thrives but it is ours now! Tee! An unwitting chauffeur arrives in a burgundy clatter. The noise of commerce in transit blocks my thought about the portent. By default I agree to be guided away by the driven demon. It handily separates me from my bedclothes at midnight then deposits me on a moonlight beach to observe the cold morning. Experience had shown me to employ a prophylactic against the tweakers in that part of the weather systemology, so I jihad a coat. Before abandoning me on this beach, a bunny, unexpected, a real sarxo, making suprising insult, counted off this list of my inaccuracies. It added up to quite an exo-voicing that really brought back some pinched carbon copies and exaporated the buzz I just bought. but they were there, histrionically verifiable as a historic preset in the present. The hot action of the tourist destination under a circling swelter in the ionosphere coming from somewhere in the anthill gives my guts the old trollop in a downward refusal of distress relief…

The demon suggest that I appeal to the bank warp for credit. An intelligence bureau representative arrives and reviews my file. He is a healthy, florid balking mannequin. His garb is thematically identical to the title of my persona. While the agent works, this contractor, associated indiscriminately among the agents from the stupefaction and disposal service arrives. With a spectacular physical incursion of interlopers to the last boundary of legality, these open accusative palms, pale of face and paunchy of swagger, indicate with a sweep that I am “way into them and in their way.” The demon has apparent interest in the compositional narrative of his antics. Permanently sojourning in each other’s realities, our criticisms radiate from foreign standards. But they don’t all call it the universe for nothing. Some quampers are timid about the sprinkle, lest they be asked too directly about themselves. That balance in the one-verse is an up or down jet. As the pasture of the narrative greens a bit, the bank warp contractor stakes another time lapse imaginary representation. The bank warp contractor waves an ambiguous goodbye. Hello? What as he sidles by the wheel did he mean? A short distance to his bivouack, the encampment is of a a rather opulent nature compared to mine, and backs upon my air with a creaking of exhaust, axles and voices. Is this contractor serious?

The assessment he takes seems to be of a legible , lasting recording. The arrangements that the contractor executes are of a most distressing nature. A picnic table dragged. A toilet for six installed-noir.
a contract is a contract. I lower my view and maintain radio silence. But I love that song! It makes me think of sewn mush!
the quagmire of the western standard’s rostrum is a deep rigid muck of usury. Also concession, merit and invidion. The birds I know are from the philandering organization of the ineffable. They send one in to chirp and it works. Now that I can trust! The mundanity of this blandishment is a riddle- Their actions must be adjudged of a superior orderves. From the machinations of the transmitter and the various contractors camped around for the demon- it makes me a bit unsure. Are the birds under contract or are they just so predictable that they’re getting played off? If they are under control and contract of the demon, and I think they are- it seems like they’re on the charitable side of the apparent character of the universe, which just now passed me a customized message in the form a license plate that said bird. Like a surgically confused cat I stalk the filtered barcoded moonlight of the beach where you placed mwa. The peat here is soft and mossy. I mumble steps by fumbling. Thus I pace the shiny pines. The lake keeps roiling so gently. It passes my understanding that it keeps coming in these very forward flat laps, stopping so perfectly every time. What is is Blessed! I understand and concur with mortifying modification of bodily function of Martyr. Her policies and police have led to This painful enduring state.
`Martyr thinks players are just plain wrong-headed. Wretches- wrapped up, in need of a piss. Look at the bicycles! And the jugs, them? They’re not for drinking from, they might likely say, because they ‘aven’t any and want some of anything. It seems like you will abstain from pissing, though you’re invited. You might remember that I had a problem with pissing in public, way back, as recently as 2000. But I’ve solved it. That, and my aryanism and attendant phobias. Licks of technological metal. I saw your chordist surreptitiously playing that b-e key on the hated board of notes. Grinning there smug on the clouds, acknowledging me on my bike climbing the hill toward sunset, depression hammering over the guilt of not having the money but having the wanted be got. Now I find your broadcasts impeccable and I look forward to them, the situation being so dire. There you represent the unfolding greatest disaster in the history of humanity, with a harmless puff a few billion trillion nano-nice ones. With a rod of protection you marshal the waft of death back of save our souls from the fallout-
“Oh, Josh!” When you say limes in the sky, your average reader thinks that you are referring to some fruit, when really you are referencing the grandly strategic empire’s border stations, be they plural in their romantical allowance of partners, on philo-sophistic stoneware of gold, architecture, land and regional economic dominance, with attendant harem comparos.
To Insist with arms upon the antique “original constitution ideal” representative republic is to Die! Be you ready to flee, can be done with the double fried dolphins?Many of you bought this because you expected straight answers on skytoons, and you thought that you could trust a professional consumer of psycho-actives and psychedelics! I’m hungry! It is like this: Having been around the sun a number of times sufficient to comprehend this: that. Thine ultimate brain chemical placement within the sentient human participant network causes a rake analogous to yer dollar or clout values..

“I’m pissing in a jug right now!” Time please. My dersh suddenly darkens as my sentiment sinks. The goose step I practice upon this fairground after curfew- it is because my doctor has specifically recommended the practice of the goose step as a remedy to my back problems- officer-but because of the vim and spite that I perceived from the public as they observed me practicing this goose step in broad daylight- I am resigned to Herme’s practice of making this high chopping of the knees as a sort of decorative bipodalism, along these historic and hallowed grounds.
My terrible hand trembles in fear of this furtivity, I forcefully bid my feet to keep their place over your advert, where I press down on the top of the sonic umbrella I use to confine her to the lower story of consciousness. This I drape so it is just barely tolerable to the lawful guideline pressed upon her by this arrangement within which we are bound. Only the fact that my points contribution is to date on average about a thousand times her points earnings. So I Lord over her up to and including the last tolerable volumetric degree with a bath of jungle-ghetto-tech and top forty garbage. It is a popular formula nowadays. People that have been paying insurance for a long period of time demand some kind of palpable return on their investment, more so than the acknowledgment of hedged liability. for a long time the insurance companies had been awarding white carts to the larger accounts, in whose carriage the countryside was trampled with such organized flanking zeal. There rising from the center of your scripted mim was this swirling nuclear storm, wafting ionizing depression and other terminal radiation.
It would appear that the musical torture device is in fact keeping consumers from making the desired impulse purchases. It seems that in the used household commodities and appliance markets there is a noticeable depression in the closure of sales recorded in the last quarter. The quarter before that also featured no sales and the downsizing of the main retail outlet in favor of the current outlet.
we need them kemt alive and capable of sustaining farmlatio- are there not worse fates?
You see, officer, I would miss that precious little commodity of privacy that you deign to tear away from me- impending such inidignity- that I cannot bear to have you remove this constitutional veil any more! If they come back giving away money they’ll win friends at face value many ways!

Therefore I -press upon you this aural tyranny until such time as your earnings justify my involvement in the outlay of resources vital to the accomplishment of this objective. Adjusting the circumstances of our union so that my stake is the more vital is unacceptable and any suspicious elevation of risk will or may result in our immediate hostile withdrawal. Someone has just release a cricket into our midst.

In my own defense and to hedge against the promulgation of false assumptions I must submit that every member of my patrilineal family, not including my own child has a measurable degree of Down’s Syndrome.

Some stale material is broached twixt the sun and the birds. The momentum of the bread crumb stalls and an illustrated representation of invidious comparison hovers. I look to my tactically deployed wonder, the sense of it, the intuitive healing stroke of destruction dealt like one subtly final F.o.c. amputation of mutated affection in the Name and Spirit of Love. The info-lance is a surgical instrument indeed!

The contractor signals ‘one’ neutral hallo, in respect of my recognizing His role in the event, as if to say no need to thank me! It is true people that when I first came to the board of keys I was strictly out for the total halt of sky tuning and the destruction of the hallucination transmitter. But now, through a common fault of my own possession, I have some high regard for the controllers of the hallucination transmitter. And by some high regard, I ephemize, meaning total reverence. That I say only because I’m being totally honest about it. Examine the function of the bank warp and its kharmic inquisitors. You know them, they’re totally cloaked like a martyr fucker.

Cross-tians! Ride the bucking bronco on thine Bibles backward! The bacon binding and prosciutto pages- delicious scrapture writ in marblin

This isn’t a costume, they say.

This isn’t a uniform for the timid. This idolized intersection of murder isn’t the stuff of innocence!!

There is an investigation into the financial activities of this religion, and it appears to be ligitimately artificial. The works are there for sufficient publican identification with the (fiat) articles of fat

My beloved secret savior whom you would not accept if television first existed. Heretofore, Yins am foresworn to oppose any realism, or antithetical logic related to thine cherished nostalgias of martyrish eventation.Funger is fake hunger, that prank call on the stomach auto dialed by the mystery salts in most of these breaded cod-meat confections.

By a transference of sorts during consumption the psyche tries to rid itself of programmed consternations and the like using a variety or graphic “por-noir” examples. the example proffered relates to the specific ambition and being of the consumer, and attempting to achieve this end on the free sites gives the boss a colorful page by page of what the worker has viewed between shifts so he can say “oh, he really likes that one, and its a hot one isn’t it? I rather enjoy it too, from a youthful perspective, and knowing from this auld age what it seems to indicate about the furnace within the mask of the house- what assembled panel of directors and managers, do we seem to agree that it says about our number model on the weekday there? Of all the feminine outlines, I’m always thoughtful- it probably means that I’m more creative om in an artistic way than the others- and I a sylph- have infiltrated them alone, and now they accept this blatant disguise- this thin psychological itimidation something creative and looking stupid as a martyr at an orgy. We got the night dark as ink, omomof, and you can’t wear a hat? We require Phallocrats of strong financial and ambivalent moral constitution
To derail by ambush of blob-jax posed just so that invite to the alabaster bull room of the hermetic order
It is easy to get the invite but it is difficult to leave the order. As a writer I cannot o join o
Can’t this genome just arrange decor without every local codebag languishing and plagiarizing the protocol? Leftover numinous images wobble memorably with desire and fear. The shopkeepers know that the madmen are just passing through. They do so every now and then, usually if their ambient toxicity becomes nearly lethal and they sense their time closing out. I scan the dark trees and breaking wraith of snow for criminals hiding, watching in at me here typifying them. Would they steal my novelty and claim they contrived it? I trace a certain sympathetic nostalgia in the revised advert you post, effectively telling me that I’m not going to be validated. “Yo homely, we don’t shovel a dusting.” the feedback swells and can’t be ignored. I canoodle helplessly. We was out there on the landscape in war-paint, with the last remaining constitutionalist-owned hallucination transmitter. It was supposed to be business but I impregnated all these weaklings and my armies are in their infancy and at their most vulnerable. The last report was that there were some new virgins in town who were mad about religion and just lusting to be chaste. Out of her sneakers and into the interface the group of them had falling to casting lots and making stakes in a virtual grotto over a towering binary list. You wanted to spy on my shelves? Chime in with some parallax. Its a precious wedge you groove in through immediately. That certain fractal You’s work throughput from. I need some action, a little gription to work against, but nothing that’s going to cost me my typer. Something of an adhesion slightly less that the broken jag of ballings and chainings lately. You’ve lost your thought track to a tattler. Diddle the phone and request de-subsistance for yourself. Oh please exploit me- but I’m wary of shoddily manufactured psychedelics. If you get into any other exaggerated genuflection let them know that I begat my stifle together and. .

We’re looking out objectively for a comment to crystallize so that we can engage togetherness in criticizing. I skim around and your request that I ex-engage in some demonstrative cheating does not go unregarded by the initiate. Cheap homeless outrage! I have no cash prospects here, but the transmitter distributes free snippets that if replayed in slow motion are material enough for any realistic masturbator.

August 7, 2011. Uncategorized. 2 comments.

Fake Breast of Champions

Toking this-meditative toxin-by this method-isn’t a good time because it smells like poop- but I feel it is my duty as an earnest seer to suffer this disdainful essence. With stern approval from the ether I practice the ritual. But my first preparation was not complete. I complained to the doctor about the weakness of the sprinkle. He said what I thought was auld-skule was bitch-folky and that I needed to hold the draw mo gank. Second round he really loaded it on. I knew that I was on my way when I saw the crumbly layer ignite and glow of its own. With discipline I drew it and then as practiced, placed the bowl on the carpet.

Tear the sash off my holy relic where you have it in your notes. There is a digitally enhanced piece of poopy on a stick that says “bloody fuck.” Gobbless you. I see the illness between my ears light up like a seething blue cubicle. Its writhing with caterpillar-esque penises. A chorus jibes that I’ve got an industrial mind sickness of the soul. Gaudy idolized cocke blockeries coil within a dirty bible of cakey beef with burnt proscioutto pages.
I went and checked grandpa’s grave, and sure enough, he’s turned over in there. The braying moral voice of the torture idol accuses me of being a tad too fond of bananas. It asks “Why investigate things of this nature?” Sensing my observing cohort’s overall timidity about the inquiry, I evade using the standard formula of abject denial. A clausal statement about the molecular presence of infinity within any minutia follows. Martyr engineered the double ‘sh’ of my name to make it easier to silence me?

Martyr doesn’t want me revealing what I reconnoitered about God’s Birthday Party. It looks like everyone is going get the gift of a chance to be happy, even Martyr. But I’m no longer the guest of honor. I try to formulate the reason why evil hates me: for being duplicitous in favor of good. Though I’m still loved my part in the plan of God’s birthday is spoiled. Spoiler alert:( On exhibit was an angel’s triad of fun that everyone could have. A bright eternal day of motor-sport racing, surfing and sex hollered a halleigh-ho with all of our names in Love. But now I’m grounded. My parents have buried me beneath the pavement of the parking lot at the foot of the tree of Life. They are pumping sewage into my ass, and they are petting me before death, filling me with poop. I am a shame to them and what they did to me is a secret chancre they disguise with luxury items. Quietly going about their business of niftily improving their furnishings until they are too expensive to touch they decide that I will go to hell alone, guiltily at fault. I am to pay the price for everyone’s farmlatio.

The bar-codes they assigned me have not helped me avoid penury! I have not been able to integrate into the info-tech jobs market. The humble manufacturing sector into which I would naturally default has disappeared. This typer separates me none-what from total fecklessness. I’m out of coupons and credit but the battery still has power. We just assume everything is monitored and you are lying when you say you’re still working on it. I am parked bodily here in grief amongst the charity that the dead put toward me in the future. Now Love cuts off my retreat to pleasure. Paradox and reflection are standing by with insufficiently honest coupons. By not enough I mean none. An ineffable communique from the cosmos presses my blood with its dire inscrutable accusation. My illuminated archetype within the hallucination transmitter’s reality is one of a worthy receptor final late execration. My gut knows which hours are friendly. I cannot clearly act to eliminate this discomfort as I feel it still coalescing. My ethereal body is filling with spiritual poop. Slipping brokenly through life I notice myself blinking amongst the oldsters at franchise’s first lighting. What am I going to do with my consciousness? It is a real divided mess and the coverlet of my alien paternal progenitor almost glides onto my person.

Chalky snap-lines in the sky- they happen every day of the year around this economy. The transmitter triangulates me and an agent takes over the play list of the station I’m consuming. The song procession parodies my paranoia. Now that Your atmospherically personified omniscience and I are intimately acquainted, it pleases me to see You’s. Cue the weather and sound the advert, we each have our oracles. This is a likely commons for brigands- and with these constant rains they’ll dissemble- but across the city of the dead the vibration of an engine rises. Though I know that there exists no evidence, and no victim, pursuit is sent. I sense it searching for me behind the grave studded hillock. To evade I entered this burial labyrinth- the time was now so I disconnected the power supplies from all present transistors and processors. But the battery of this surveillance device that I have inhaled is impregnable to my interference. Now I am without anyone’s lodging and my head rings weakly of other places. Certain unseemly invitations call me and I pretend to ignore them. But disgrace and fear of vectors within reality deter my wandering form. The power of my pittance now is little good. Now the expansion of consciousness is making me dumb. My crystal with which You’s furnished me espied the judgment of the torture idol to be a sure fit. No place but forgotten wedges of brush lot left to poop in peace. Will the grip of the poverty pass me over and peel off a negative, rolling an image of “how it really is” up onto the screen of eternity for us to behold. All these rich assholes are ashamed of what they’ve extruded: me=poop. My priorities mysteriously align. I’m tapered at the ends so I don’t slam shut. Despite the damaging incongruence we arrive early in the warp. This is apparent to us as we beam calm recognition of the fact that we are accustomed only to feeling alive and mostly young.

The Phallocrats have their distinctions and sins- this apostate from the Phallocrats is on the lookout for sweet thick moss and a deep narrowing grip. I take out my swastika-farmlatio-cigarette art. I do it in such a way that glorifies Christ along with all the other worthy and unworthy martyrs. My martyr thinks He’s the best but I refuse to profess to choose exclusively. Universal intelligence stencils its signature on my ass with a precise, gradual application of reality.

Nano-tech will milk the juice from the sky. The transmitter strongly suggests indulging in some morbid fascination. This mobile ability to act is a tenuous shackle to my core programming that wants to arrive in dominance of the standard by travail through complete and direct deviation. (The careful balance and circumspection of sunshine is where the cake is at.) I feel the cleaves and fractals of the crystal beginning to lean toward me positively. The import of irrelevant peripheral stimuli takes on a slightly friendlier, more cooperative tone of cipher. Some initiatives, though vainly wanted by the fascia of the hallucination transmitter control room, cannot be furnished among the many on the ground by their purveyors arcing between. And if an agitative objector within their network’s sphere of influence is too successful or unruly to ignore, the entire array of media assets tunes in concert against that agent’s sanity. Clearance-enabled operators within the data interface pique the song lists and advertising slant to agitate the targeted personality.

Undulations of what the Western Standard calls temptation are suggested from random import and observation. Universal intelligence far exceeds, but does not apparently out-reify the controllers of the hallucination transmitter. Their smarmy sub-audible diatribe of aping my paranoias begins to clarify, cracking my thoughts into static. Martyr knows I swelter beneath this summer of life’s inability to pee in public carried over from painful adolescence’s toxic wanton. Gradually wobbling me off into these restraints, toward death. Very fine articles of telecommunication- angelic spaceships- bide invisibly over funny modern sundials that aren’t anchored, but spin like gravelly carousels, and are set by a wristwatch.

The total sum and substance of these archival millenia is the other side of nature. The chirping of the birds sounds like a hardcore personal epitaph, and it came delivered with the slam of a door. Working your cloud waifs rather anomalously, as it seems from the calm of the tarmac, I finally look and discern your skytoon. I know its bad for my eyes and my mind. The images are highly suggestive and the ultimate in unobtainable. An agglomeration equidistant with reality makes a seamless but contrary quip using anything significantly with endless ingenuity and irony. They are trying to unseat my concentrated quietude using their privileged knowledge. The illustrations they pose as omniscient weather aerosols combine all too seamlessly with the actual synchronistic comment of the one true universal intelligence. But a discerning observer can tell them apart because even though they can control the shape and movement of the clouds with nano-dispersion electro-magnetically intermingled with the natural inevitable other dusty airborne mass the uniform and coherent magneto-wave forms that surround the apparitions lack the sincerity of actual clouds.. This reflective commentary from the cosmos now interjects with a dissing sound meaning sarcasm. I am the bad calculus mounting. My mother’s mind is made- mom’s man is a made maid- my many misalliances make martyr’s mind morbidly mad. Mean mayhem is monotheism on mother’s mind. My morals are minimized. The transmitter silently urges me to act like the type execrated by the standard. The rain filtering through the trees taps like many voices on the roof of my ultra-low income housing. I feel your tires snaking through the puddles to report my location.
With this natural drumming there is no silence. I look to the expense of my habits and wish to consolidate and pay the weatherman directly. I question this precipitation as its barometric providence is specious, this precipitation too sleety for this heat.

the weatherman- he has his graven clown-hood- and I have mine. The dead see me huddled by daylight, parked under the trees while the gates are open. A large headstone topped with a crossyfix and a bird. Through the rain I didn’t think twice but then the bird flew away. I hear my martyr’s hated voice quavering. I’m having my broken fast with the engine off and the rain talking down. The phrase “praise dilaudid” resounds in the tip-taps. I make a sweet bed of the parking lot. Rising ungodly steam of stereo. Everybody knows my specific model is in exile but they wonder where in particular. Not only am I bodily expelled from my many usual places but I have PTSD from DMT. Your probably don’t know much about those experiences but its like hot rape by sexy insects during time travel panoplies. It is so real that now, normally paced reality is a lizardine gang-bang of parameters and manifest destinies. What’s that like? Volcano weather- too cold for mushrooms to appear. The crystal saw me walk and overturn the correspondence, and the cleaving of my total going where I went was absorbed in energetic observance. One who could observe the vibrational report of the crystal saw the event. Turning back from the light of a star to the dirt of the hearth- I feel you building static and thinking about the bolt’s aim and lightening. Because they told you that you were not light but dust, a finer version of dirt- and that you were here permanently and not temporarily. Half the sky darkens and half lightens while your charge accumulates. Drawing the necessary density from one section of towering cloud friction using your network of electromagnetically conductive hallucination transmitter towers. Because in the irony of his wisdom he made you to be especially stubborn against this fact: that your animal in pain so bright is not made of dirt but of water and light. My name is running with blood and I linger pissing thereby at night.

The PTSD I suffer from DMT is an advanced form of time travel sickness. Is my disease damning? Is my destiny diseased? The rumor is that Crosstianism is a phallocentric cult of personality set up to enhance the profits of the weather consortium and the death-belief racket fund…What is the hermetic order of the public? Seeing that my archetype within the hallucination is one subject to communal execration the words of a bad song cling to my voice. The message is a jumbled greeting that is addressed to me and is from my Martyr. It is a refrain of hatred disclaiming her culpability- her guilt in bringing about the shut-down. Now it is granted. This quiet place for my sober reflection and genuine detailed explanation of my actions issues from these pithy inscriptions- over which both of our fingertips have traced decades apart and unsuspecting of one another until this, the very latest- when I am exposed with shame- I share with you the story from this place, situated upon the heavenly precipice to and fro hell. The path to this spot is easy to travel but not so obviously marked. One can infer from the feel of the place what the deal is. A very ugly beauty is furnished indeed. Beyond the tame mountains of the horizon rises a sprinkle of smoke from the garbage fire at the site of the siege.
This estate along the seaward flow of the bank warp, that we are passing nearby is my lost ancestral home. A loser still, close by floats this mist of dispersion. The sky has changed habits since our shack was here- silver stubby roaches scrape the yonder and leave crosses and grids of clouds in their wake.

To the witnessing ghosts of Mr. Church and Mr. Evans I tell my troubles. I will not let them haunt us, reader, without acknowledging that they are here with me. Because Mr. Evans is present invisibly on the template of these days of my life. I attest to it, Mr. Church, and advise your wariness regarding the uncanny nature of these invasions- Our zodiacal, geographical, and circumstantial places are overlain- the time and dates of our moist significance- I can feel reality coinciding badly. I’ll try to use my stomach to modulate it. And give me money now. For the pittance of the coupon price mentioned you may follow along too, otherwise then fall by the wayside and pay some visit to one of my sponsors. My Martyr is zealous about one version of things that isn’t justified- and since the consecrated function of a martyr is to die needlessly for a lost cause, then she ought not be doing so well in accumulating invidious material wealth. Perhaps she is a martyr for intolerance, perhaps a martyr for materialism.

Are her bonds not also animated by the programmers of the hallucination transmitter, with which I co-operate so well? Do they regard it in their thoughts like a pornographic cartoon series written by an omniscient author? A fat spider presents herself and I wonder if she is poisonous? The terrible gall of this leadership cult. These hypnotizing social clinicians arrive upon my martyr. The dead will fill in the blank. Insufficiently humble pilgrim- be among us in this way as you are above us.

A draft climbs my sock and says something familiar to my leg. This used to be a nice part of the floor. My recreational drug warming indicators flash. Cold runs in my stomach and I apply hot chronic. Spirituousness crowds me to the keys demanding that I write. Candles first…an aged neon me. A negativistic purple of my usual antique taupe. Here it glows, filling the periphery.
I scour the interface for jobs. Fake help wanted. A product called “Blob-jax” is for sale. The services of a “peintre” for hire.

My father liked to paint. Penile scenery mostly. I should tell You’s this about myself, that I hate paintin.’ Especially for the purpose of uniformly colorizing a surface.. even now, however, the brush swills and bangs in my hand. It is quite dangerous for me to become involved with pastels. I’ve painted it gayly and now I linger on the threshold of my open cage-

Martyr wants me in there and stepping tall and rocking my head from side to side as I’m marching in place. She pictures me steaming along in there, a horn tooting from the corner of my smiling mouth, socking it away. And though body has been an easy sell based on the boner alone, I have labored for years to produce to attractive personality content. By the imperial perceptions of my mind I estimate that I am likely a living inheritor of the legacy of bitch-folk. I infer that I am speaking from the central reptilian intelligence of self. I search amongst this priced intoxication for the words of transcendent logic. I’m trying to find words to sell that you’ll recognize as genuine, because I know you won’t buy anything fake twice. The strengths of my mind are being trashed by disuse- and the vicarious inspiration of my imagination and the stress of frustration is beginning to ache physically. Out of the pastel cloaks of entertainment the extreme incongruent ratiocination foisted on my larynx during crucial adolescence reifies and titillates me hauntingly. We’re each supposed to be free of our sexual traps by a certain arbitrary deadline or else- imprisoned with our blob-jax or impoverished without them.

This tin chin is tucked loosely on a wrecked neck under my morning stare. Manhole covers glow away down the strip like buttons on a shirt reality is wearing. Customers edge past me and don’t look. My sumptuously candied vision wavers and refreshes, the sun accents the frozen street in stainless purple ribbons of gold. I hunch tactically behind a sheen of glass. The glass is upheld by a wooden crucifix and this design is so reasonable and simple that peep holes bored deadly religions ruminating upon it. Some passing flair partially blinds me to the details. And in the glare I see them. On the surface of my eye- there they are.
A shamming banner deploys overhead in a streak, then smears descending.

When I squint a bit and try to look at the light just exactly where it is entering my body appreciably, on the surface of my eyeball, I see the amoeba sausages. These nano-caterpillars sliding on the surface of my eyeball ride downward and seem to exit the stage. These partly translucent caterpillars are suspiciously linked with circular articulating joints, so that when I cross my eyes to get my brain to stare perceptively at the surface of the ocular ball I see them sliding on the bubble of my retinas, like kites on heaven.

I suspect these micronic kinky linkages are part of the aerosol weather manipulation cloud strips being dispensed in the sky by the hermetic aviators. Because of the suspicious locus of additives to the air I cannot easily disregard these amoeba sausages. I’ve never in my life noticed the sharp and consistent design of these nano beasts before. Today they seem kinkier than usual, the strands waggling back and forth between circular links. Other days these have seemed to not be as kinky. Now I notice many more of them than usual. Having little alternative other than to wash my eyes and go on with my affairs it occurs to me that if these beasts are falling invisibly upon my eyeball then they could be within my lunch and I.

You’s pass the pad amongst me blindly. I’m beyond the pale now- what they consider to be a little worse than bad. I’ve let the wringing between my ears go unexchequed too long. Out of the stars I can easily pick your planet. With my vision fizzing I can barely focus on a moment in the light. Then you climb in on my shoulder. Here you are beautiful and blatant amongst the plain stellar arabesque. You’s pretends to be natural until I’ve done something ineffable- the moment it wants me to know you’re watching, the fake planet juts silently a significant distance across the night sky- and parks once again to remain- glittering and blinking past dawn. We travel time, entertaining the notion continuously. “Harmonious parsimony or parsimonious harmony?” Glance the real business by omission. The benefits of the interface pass beyond doubt once one’s physical condition declines untoward the burning remainder of vitality. To survive space and time travel we interfacial aliens took large black pills. Coated with a 50,000 microgram instant-absorption LSD loading dose, and encapsulating a five million microgram 240-month TR™LSD therapy dose. Our perfect swerve’s apex is a tight perihelion and we hustle our galactic racing planet around the sun like techno. Our mind is only beginning to act. Shafts of old people filter the light. A hundred times one rides the earth around the sun before the molecular borders between mineral and vegetable get splotchy. Our torsos dwindle while the psychedelic stimulants approach their peak. The junk-ware of our minds are cradled lovingly off the popsicle stick of our bodies and placed in the neuro-gelatinous maintenance gristle-bath of the interface. Uniforms keep our avarice perky. View through a satellite for a vision of me. The location-synthesizing program takes You’s to the very path I slip into and out from several times a day. Pass over me to the contents of my hovel. On my coddle sock our eyes lock. This moment in the dance music theater and all the words of genius are obvious, salable and mine for the taking. My sight and heart full of these words, the lights come up in the dance music theater and I plunge for the stylus and my mind, but I find that I’ve suddenly grown dumb to the epiphany. I thrash around to characterize the all pervasive comfort of knowledge that was flowing in my face so colorfully. I crinkle a convenient little tear for the things I want. But the blaring precious dimension has tattered into an invisible memory that seems to run away from my desire to recall it.
You’s reach for dials and dispatch a few lines of aerosol: for this purpose employ a secretly groomed cadre of aryan mongol aviation contractors to sow the heaven with vaporous tin foil… Of the sky the bitch-folkmen bleat negatively. Yet they breed a certain type of retard. I cannot believe that I am attached as this retard. It hurts and shames me that we are joined… the disgusting conversations that I endure with you…so belligerent in your ignorance that I want vengeance. These retards- senses and shadows are these bitch-folk. Their space flake is easily dispensable in varying confections. Combing the advertisements I single myself out as your possible custie. Your responses keep combing and I reassure you that I need them by arching my eyebrows highly and drawing back the pen in a textilian whisper of feigned shock. My book of faces is interpolastic. Sublimated energy generated thereby radiates above the thought sequence- it is obvious by survey that the automaton fellators have completely infiltrated the culture as the ads all volunteer for a specific sort of treatment that is avoided at all costs by most. The transmitter directs it to occur like this: In the shadow idiom I browse privately and touch upon certain invitations but pass them by.then espying the title of an entered search that catches the fancily- there and then the rake knows that his character fits the advertisement: this the hoe. They dispatch an agent with the minimum required opposing opinion to legally register their non-condonement. An identical deviation seems to exist and certify the reality of the looping hole. In the spirit of martyrdom I destroy my ego for cross mass. Systematically I seek out the most diametrical opposite meat moan conceivable on no notice: people masturbating to very small screens. Truly disproportionate misalliances! Examination of self’s motives in viewing media on such a scale poses excitation in an artistic way. The rapid sequential enumerated reification of erotic archetypes and the interface’s interrogative creepiness makes the vaguest edge of paranoia leap into relief. I’m wearing a tin foil thong and a keyboard, the room goes dark and the movie screen lights up and its all these three-to-seven word sentences. I’m wondering what’s up with this text interface and reading the little tidbits. There’s a little pointer on the costume hat that seems to make whichever line I was looking at change from white to pink. So I’m in this text interface and I begin scanning the various invitations that prostitutes and bodies waiting for someone had posted. Bitch-folk browsing the vignettes validate them by masturbating. I join them in scanning the posted tags. “Multiple Crazy Persons (MCP) in search of (ISO) various legal services (VLS):” After three seconds supplemental text for the headline’s side effects scroll out. “Working car or nice floor for objectifiable outer genital. This is for now. NSA. IHS. ” Once that additional text is turned over for three seconds a very sharp and narrow spotlight from high in the rafter comes on illuminating my outer genital with millions of watts of candlepower. There is an agency monitoring my reaction for inversion of response, a telling indicator of character alignment. My genital either does not respond or responds inwardly. “I need some heat and I don’t know how to tune in. I am a marked man in my prime with a stifle and twit. I went to church after work a couple of months ago, and got a little religious. One of the guys offered to drive me home. Well, one thing led to another and we were born again. Now, I am NOT a baby, I am a poseur. I had never done anything with Jesus before. Now horn lever, now I feel myself really drawn to this religion, and we worship if ever we can. I think I am getting evangelical about it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to convert my stifle. I don’t want to be religious or secular, but it’s like the Jesus narrative has a spell on me. I can’t stop thinking about him and wanting to be religious…”
I replay the ad as many times as it take my avarice in viewing to achieve its denoumont, then the monitor records the correlation between the time that I started, how many times I replayed the ad before I stopped replaying it, and how long the delay between key-presses calling for replay lasted.
Some curly monitor behind the action watches it closely and comments wryly, deterring further energetic symbiotic input to the program. Across the multi-media pornographic story board meat is canted at repelling angles, requesting time to review and waiting to be paid. Meat gesticulates, meat flees. I taste the meat’s ugly masturbative sweat. The observer occupies an identical meat hood. Note the unlikeliest combination of imagery as it shows a medusa of penises leaking and writhing in a penetrating and penetrable mass.

The monitor presses the required moral tone on the the action like a dredel on a bubble, guiding it around and showing the runes of its different sides to make her mind felt and known. You’s write “hard times” in a cursive of nasty lines on my face. I insinuate around the edges of my digital personality. Then I decide that it really doesn’t matter which twit I dash by to represent me in shadow. The vault is too secure for coincidental discovery, Its inventory is slated to disappear once the overhaul descends. Contrary to the abstaining spirit of earlier vision I press gently on this chosen button. The crown that I wear radiates dark heat and my palms leak. The interface blazes. My heart races and the computer rises. The respectability of writing as a facade for inactivity or worse convinces the observers.. A date with modified victimhood looms like the chances of winning at bingo. Prophylactic action forbears the transcript of several sessions and ongoing work is evidence of actual sentiment urgently expressed. The objectification of their titillation through the flight control interface provides a foreground for the remnant of prurient desires not winnowed from existence with the chromosomal omission. I’m listening for objective feedback regarding this subjective input. They want to know about the subject’s objectives. Objectively the subject calls for perspective. This is blurred as the matter is personal. The transmitter sends half a dozen contractors to certify that it was in fact my face there on the computer. We need half a dozen agents on the ground to verify that his machine isn’t stolen and being used for sabotage. It was definitely him, Sergeant. The weight of these considerations produces unexpected drag and by the pull of it the desired orbits fail to intersect. So closely to my drama do they adhere that for a moment the paranoia loosens as I consider that it must be me personally gone mad. No agency could reasonably afford to scan me so continuously. My retinas ache with the chore of identifying myself so often.

The cult draws members through propaganda of opposite characters in lurid agreement. The very finest organic ratios are displayed in popularly deplorable occupations. Identifying passionately with the other, wishing to be the opposite role is a classic activity of the TV-cult victim survivor’s groupies. It isn’t just me glomming onto the untamed word of them through this; we’ve been together a long time. Now peep holes want to show what is going on in this room. We are the interface. Time is altered to just now only. The events that appear to occur are carefully orchestrated media propaganda dispensed over the community as a symbolic penalty for me being among them. A secret public agency publishes desired plot specifications disguising them as advice column letters and the resulting private correspondence is their fodder. The robots are made for you to feel sorry for them. When they wake up out of their charging function easiest to see their artificiality where the naturalness would ordinarily be. I want some easy answers and I get them. But the robots begin taking more than they’re giving.

The slowdown scrutiny thereup. What we see on the ground are supertankers and smaller jets of a more local dispatch crossing to an fro with some frequency. The scripted wake of their travels remains to make a smeary network. But they don’t sit in the crockerypit. They have Down’s syndrome. there is no fun to be made of them, it is just who they are. The corporate military uses them for just that reason. They’re not front and center in the plane. They’re in a little cubicle perpendicular to the fuselage analogously manipulating a digital interface. So if you see several shape-spaces that spray grids and crosses in the sky you should know its a team of religious incompetents sitting by in-flight to represent an automated task. These misunderstanding marauders fit the definition of aviators in that they are habitually aboard these craft. Their control of the landing, trajectory and take-off is limited to manipulating a touch-screen cartoon pornographic sequence representing the controls.

The shape spaces are powered by the action of these masturbators. Porn is their fuel and taboos direct the steerage. When they want to go left they show a threesome of two women, and if they want to go right they show a threesome with one woman. As they need to accelerate they show orgy close-ups, and if they wish to slow down the sequence pans back from the orgy. The cartoon pornographic display shows sadism for hovering and to deploy the surveillance and kill functions the display features hobo-course and snuff respectively. The preferences and prejudices of the aviators dictate their response to the cartoon interface narratives. What does it mean when you’re spraysin’ the cross over our neighborhood?

These chem-trail aviators truly believe themselves to be pioneers for the cross- doing cross-tianism and advertising the law of the lord by spraying the sign of the cross in the sky. They illustrate the principle of tic-tac-toe- that both of us will emerge equals without a winner if both of us act logically.

Pilots are acclimated to the cartoon representation of the flight control interface by passively observing the illustrated narratives as entertainment. Inside the training simulator their reactions to specific pornographic vignettes are closely monitored. The plots of these are subtly altered to reward or suppress excitation, and the reactions of individual pilots are conditioned along these parameters.
For Stalker going left is a brunette, a chair and he builds grocery points represented by a digital shopping cart icon that fills or empties depending on performance. The program is designed to disguise its own existence and guards against the chance of the aviator realizing its true nature by adjusting the task and points earning requirements to reward whatever the aviator happens to do. At ground control, a simple series of lights indicate if the pilot is participating with the interface or has lost interest. It doesn’t matter if they’re accurate and their control of the plane is a coincidental semblance if they perform perfectly.So if the task of the interface is to manipulate the touch screen to evenly spread a hue on on the chair using the brunette’s seat, and stalker merely assaults the chair, then after a moment the level in the cart will halt its ebb and jump to task-complete levels.

They get the orders for their airy mission “Crosstians! Ride the bucking bronco of thine bibles backward. Compassionately cleanse the surfaces of the earth so a human alpha and human omega exist alone.” Hermetic aviators see it contractually: we are the cross-tian spermata lawfully prosecuting these bitch-folk the Poopy Boobs. The Poopy Boobs are on the dirt polluting. They lovingly battle we Poopy Boobs by spreading crosses over us. On the ground we’re rather concerned that the nano-polymers are entering our bodies in a collateral effect from the dispersion for the other obvious secret purpose of turning us each into magnetic discharge lamps lit by the inductive field composed of the nano polymer laden atmosphere and the high frequency power supply of the hallucination transmitter. The choir doesn’t even notice the preaching and assumes passenger liner paths regularly intersect unnoticed nearby overhead. I press the mechanic for an explanation. A flat nasal inflection on each syllable keeps my banter unintelligible. The Leadership meeting begins and we follow along. The paper equals coupon. Coupons trade for dirt and metal. Vegetables and meat go by on coupons. Places to put stone and wood to sit in. Gadgets to use, or ride on. Injun coupon values based on the total owned by the nation.

The form is a perfect spiral with accents. The accoutrments include a dropper bottle and a razor blade. We need a system that will manipulate the mind of the suspected criminal within his own conscience- manipulations emanating from a criminally unimpeachable source- the arch-criminal creator of wild nature’s eyepiece- the heavens- inserted by a critical farce.

Who owns the hallucination transmitter? Unknown observers watch my nuerosis unfold wirelessly word by word. Appraising my progress and interjecting certain statements of critical compliment, or complimentary criticism it should claim the credit it deserves. Otherwise I credit the psychedelia drizzling onto our mucuous membranes. The power of it drew the attention of those- whom I shall call aliens, or Him, or You’s. This observing worker meanwhile botched the job and sabotaged the union, member for member. Mediating the process and interloping with offers to insure against conviction with a policy to pay for appeals. These charges of capitalism in the garden- accusations of arbitrage on the arbor- stakes staked in a business-like way for living accountability- instead we should have agreed in a friendly way never to spoof ourselves insincerely, but the neighborhood has already seen our comedy. They have their own idea of how to best satirize our abstractions.

√The aliens reorganized society along certain utilitarian guidelines. The seamlessness of the adult male human design with the alien main-subframe made the transition to the new galactic moral loyalties uniform across the unsuspecting native human species. Once the electrical grid was closed to the organic bipeds, their sexes were infiltrated by inorganic automatons of character and function that only an atomic inspection upon autopsy could reveal the functional differences. By this sleight of character a global subterfuge was painstakingly lain to turn enigmatically galvanize each and every individual across the species.
The minds of the aliens then instantaneously replaced the native organic bipeds. The method was simple: for a population of five billion males, fifty thousand inorganic female drones of this highest pulchritude and athletic engineering were delivered to the oceans two miles off global vacation destination coasts where they discreetly swam ashore bikini clad or naked in rough surf and were rapidly assimilated.
This was the platinum age of meteorically sensual beings of transition gender. Flexible inoculation drones inject the nanoscale intellectual propagation chip with a scarcely noticeable method. The drone does not inspire more than momentarily compelling notice and so that the drone could continue unhindered the next moment without threat of hot pursuit. The males then resorted to their known organic cohort transmitting the nano-memes. Universal intelligence is distributed to decentralized human agents
My best traveller reifies and says there’s a little statue of him on jesus’s dashboard.
The only one who can stop him now is digital bob- He knows how to grab my caulk. Here’s the thing- you gotta get out there and if you have nothing you’ll get by making it up real quack.
Remember to picture yourself performing a psychotic act in the wake of sleeping with your stalker. The predatory cycle of life has a cigarette. “You’re too nervous around me- all my guy friends wonder if they have anything to worry about. Have a high tolerance for tripping?
If you can translate anything funny from the psychedelia, there’s coupons in it. They’re giving away a jillion coupons for a successful demonstration of a better sluice ride machine. A siren calls and my refund is on the way. ghetto tech therapist picks out the crop circle i want and advises me to formulate a series of interventive musical responses to the adverse conditions that arise in the array. As the blank sheep, my family don’t associate. Thing is my boyfriend’s in jail with my Husband. They started talking back and forth. Two imprisoned names- bastions both. Now when they stand together by shoulder their combined tattoo reads “Chicken Hawks Beware” Requiem for convenience: a hidden microphone knows the straw wax man behind the identity. Does anybody know who the name in capitals represents? Now erotic tones emanate from everything tinged with fear and embarrassment. That’s the effect i get when I give and take Blob-jax.
Tweet the dark knowledge flowing into the vaccuum balloon. I advise you critically about your business then I get bank raped. But we build on this vacated currency. What you liked about me was that I seemed to embody the shadow. That I absorbed darkness for your adjacent illuminating fundament. Our juxtaposed personalities, pressed tightly together

the passing shadow of an organic specimen darkens the periphery. It still seems notable to remark to the self about her, as the subversion of the inorganic plants is nearly complete: to soften your sentiment before securing the chattel of indebted energies or some shit. It’s demanded like necessity, an exchange for which I pay in kind, a blob-jax of the transaction, this narrative certain to enlighten a certain widely darkened field of enquiry. Perhaps it would be too odious for the career employee of the industry in question to consider the ramifications of the ongoing intrigue, for the stress it might create on the day-job and the income. But for one of a status incontrovertibly retired from the air corridor it might not be too much to reflect upon. So I present my perspective upon the matter as a matter of urgency for the favor of investment that I must ask of you. As you may adjudge this book by its cover I invite you to also peruse its content critically while pretending to have no actual knowledge of who I am whatsoever other than as some stranger who wrote this assuring you that you might find it interesting. It is a pitiable sum that i must beg of you but because of the publican demands of rearing both the genetic and intellectual scion of this dynasty I find the chore unavoidable. So with apologetic circumspection I broach the sum of the amount: ____________
Sections that you might find especially compelling at a glance are the 6-8Hz frequency insinuations. Widely outlawed for commercial suggestive use against shoppers but open-secretively deployed against the workaday mass in certain metropolitan areas by the unavoidable network of “cell” towers that we all so loathe and rely upon. The Teslar alternative to the pollution of the radio networks is perhaps a far flang wonder tone, for civilian use, for the very reason that this capability would wreak civil disorder of a sort similar to funding any and all upstarts with unlimited electricity. The very same reason why modern superheroes wear suits of thick rubber, because the secret teslar weapons wreak lightning, and the suit is the only defense. The possibilities of wireless transmission of usable electricity has quiety eleuded notice from the average global taxpayers for the last one hundred years. so have a chip-fab! Since that rueful day if the “accidental” destruction of the remote siberian forest-a certain respectful hermetic observance granted not even to nuclear particle physics is observed with this technology. But since the consolidation of the con, especially in the last twenty-five years, deployment of this techno “harp music” on a civilian scale grid should not pose the security risk that an unfettered advancement in the method along independent non-mns sponsored research and developmental parameters shouldn’t be an issue with the NSa. Although my musings may be two decades behind the practice, for the “save the planet” app the option doesn’t appear- but you see those heavy vibes will keep the hot particles back. So I pose my little picture of life bitterly so, like look what we’re speeding past on our way to a complete melt down in terms of prices and innocent ideals about buying and burning things.
I don’t imagine that you still employ a burn barrel do you? Another option would be a socialistic issue of magnifying glass for organically igniting processed hemp and other cannabis products produced during the shutdown of the proposed overhaul. The rate of return on the required investment would be quietly realized in spades before the power ever came back on. Control of falling water sources, stockpiles of actively radio static materials would be tightly guarded as sources of decentralized deployable emergency tactical resource. Magnetic and air-compressed rail, hash powered trollies, sand the hard surface of the roads, become the ribbon flooring for the new national shakedown street. The sociable issue of a solid tipi networko for the masses and the freeing of cannabis from arbitrary restraints- Fuck legalizing so you can sell it to me- don’t think I’m going to buy it. Anyone convicted of obstructing the agricultural cultivation of a genetically pure cannabis seed should be imprisoned for not less than five years.These three billion would be given a marginal right of way of perhaps a few miles within which to perform their agriculture and non-electrified architecture. The rudimentary “martyr-board” necessary for reception of the teslar benefit would be manufactured and issued beforehand as both a mollifying and surveillance agent.
The second halve of the specie wants the topic to return to more personal matters. Following the data file jockey’s cues and knowing the titles of the songs helps to establish the intent of the jockey’s irony. Finding alignments in undeniable sequence the perspectives balance for a clear bicameral picture of the situation. The objectivity of seeing yourself through the eyes of the transmitter control booth if you’re on the dance floor and being able to phone in your requests telepathically makes buying the quartz crystal from that guy worthwhile. The vibe seems to imply: Do anything you may…so like a hobo on the alphabet I hitch onto a passing moment. Mostly for the kids nowadays…the false but reassuring visage of care-freedom. “You heard about those alien jets spraying grids in the sky? What can anyone do about them? We’ve got to euphemize with them while they’re on the ground!” I just went there on mind control- totally automatic.

The noise level rises closer to an audible frequency, but dallies just below an apprehensible level. I follow the moonlight like a ghost and occupy a continuous series of residences by portion of the month. Leaves vacantly move abruptly. I am informed about the members identities by a disparate network

We’re there struggling for a grip on who we were, oscillating between viewpoints, trying to decide which way in our own minds to vote upon this issue. There are certain worse, more vile things happening ionically in every neighborhood on every planet. But these things is patently unnecessary- are they the only stakes worth vying for with this level of subterfuge? Must be something no less important than the polar ice-caps themselves. Am I right? The planetary albedo has mysteriously increased in the past decade or so. A magnesium and aluminum poly-nano-chelate being distributed by aerosol along the flight corridors of our favorite commercial airlines? For one who ought to know thine silence speaks volumes. Didn’t I already ask you this question in detail and get nothing? Now look what the hand of curiosity hath wrought. The cover you will admit is a beautifully attractive thing,

I sense you cross the room with my eyes closed for the past half hour. I knew that you were in the gardens, and at certain turns I could feel you watching me inside picking at things. Now I turn down a smile knowing that you are stalking around in your omniscient way. We’re having a little time together as some sun begins to warm the stone while the shadow is away. Only time can chase away this shadow. And the sun must be sought to soften its outline. You’s refrain from replying as I scroll though the texts that I usually resort to for bibliomantic illumination. Then I too hold back, like I’m respecting my friend by making sure I don’t crockery-block by being too cool. But naturally it cannot be helped so I let my eyes glitter real bitch-folky and switch on and off like I’m taken by affect and without apologizing just snivel a bit of whatever greeting comes to nose. So we’re skulls there me admiring the reflection even though it’s dark outside and the native told me not to look upon reflections in glass at night and there I am doing it. So I see myself there, reflected in the glass of the windows upon the dark gardens. It is too late as the moments that my eye dallied on the slick surface between the ink of the witnessing night and the heated forgetfulness of the interior. On the wavy glass merged and equated a metaphor. Stuck there comprehending the narrative of a distorted mirror as the real truth, and that these imperfections in old leaded glass were the real ironic remark about the way that appearances appear to be kept just so by those appearing. The ringlet of a small hole in the glass signifies a blank pock in the cheek of my skull face this bright face of me illuminated by the glow of the vacated cooking fire behind me. I thought that I like to demand a certain sort of techno music with my desert, and tried to casually chew off the encounter. But my eyes soon returned to the glass. Just who in the night was also seeing me seeing myself, for certainly they saw me as who I was, not distorted like I was seeing and suddenly feeling myself. I checked around in my mind mid mastication and sure enough there they were, deep and house playing in perfect synchronous groovy harmony. But there was that mysterious gape in my face. We had promised parsimony for our harmony, either way, but was this a comment of the ages aligned by accidents and humorously appearing as relevant to blood and orgasms in the mind of someone paying coupons to dine casually…no such trick could have been devised by an artists hand, the alignments were really only abrasive if one considered a negative connotation at first to the phenomenon.
The body reads electrical tensility as sticky moisture with a bit of gritty dirt. The wall of white and gray noise is comprised entirely of keystrokes on plastic toggles. lain in the waste like the perfect spiral of the hippie is the tale of the code extracted from the sand core of the chip pried from the melted circuitry. The script reveals little except the vacancy of the deserted hardware once the software had overwritten its own bounds.
These eastern thievery rings use top-shelf art school drop outs to get the in on the entrenched pros at the institute. They get them into position in shiny mini-skirts. The leotard is tasteful as their oculars are common. But this suburban whimsey misleads. Their agent is a drone deployed unwittingly.by the hallucination transmitter to disrupt the constitutional relations of specifically flagged citizens. The motive and target of the control room behind the hallucination transmitter is guessable but unclear. Is it the one that has the hard-core thou-shalt nots, or is it the one that doesn’t intervene at all? The agent arrives in an excellent mask of bangles. The carpet permitted to this interloper is spacious and dubious. An hermetic aviator crosses the closed circuit background.

This body has been a very easy sell based on the boner alone. However, I have labored for years to produce attractive personality content. For a while I was doing a thing I called ‘purity.’ I would conspicuously not pay attention to the live entertainment, I would just do it relentlessly without looking out of my little sphere. That went on a long time but I wasn’t ever selected to perform because I wasn’t making enough eye contact. Nowadays I do a buildup of verbal complaints and an attention-getting trick where I appear to be lurching up violently for some reason but then I break out into an stylized ejaculatory grind. All the regulars know and love it, but its really only funny if there are tourists present. On holidays and weekends I stay pretty central to the action in the gallery. One morning before lunch one of the beauties walks in from the set and says “I was watching the crowd in the gallery on the monitors and I couldn’t help notice your mongol aryan descent- would you consent to be exploited more specifically- particularly we noticed that some of your facial gestures appeared to be aggressive yet blissful- we were wondering if we could create some moments around the omissions in your code that we have in mind?” We have orders to assign..your newest act- “bank-raped..”
What happened during the shut-down is that the state of alternative development achieved such perfection that the originally planned changes to the system were abandoned, and the adaptations institutionalized.
You’s are a member of the data suffrage community and entertain the shibboleth for answers to your rising and falling fortune. The killers that my musings may have set free…they ravage the city with their knives glorying in my words..I consider now what power it might deny the righteous were some brazen killer who ought to be brought under the sway of the Heavens to fully understand the impotence of that measure
I will start this little charade over with nothing but penuriousness as my burning paranoia, bearing scruples in mind. I keep notes and slap a title on them periodically. A little shaping with my acid chisel. She’s an elbow of nuggets, minimum type of bitch.

Local tranquility prevents that unpleasant push-pull action that a major interruption in the local manufacturing output of a high demanded commodity.
What happens is this: the war appears to settle into a long decided lull, where no surrender can be given by a decentralized citizen enemy. No surrender other than abject compliance with garden law tyranny, and that is just not possible with so many hundreds of millions of citizens unhappy about this illegal law. this law literally interferes with the free function of the ecosystem to breed peace and equality. Because of the bounty that this unfettered industry pours upon humanity and in increasing concentration and goodness the more so if an increasing population breathing ever more oxygen focusses on it for it respiration to offset our beef.
Nowadays if we go out shopping we’re mostly buying themes. Usually we try to rent them and take them for all they’re worth, and that isn’t usually much. One of the themes that I found thrown away garbled in the garbage has really stood up, that there is think jalopy world of funky crimson cushions and jutting bookshelves racing away into a buy spot where nothing is got. Then you read down and realize you’ve gone shopping and bought a rhyme, and you’re taking space really trying to remember if that’s a cat or the kid leaning on you. As soon as I pass an aisle or two the surveillance personnel know if I’m a real shopper or not. Back if I was a petty toy taker, they were never watching and I always got away with it. But then if my larcenous exploits took on a twinge of grandeur that I no long took an untoward advantage of a brink and mortal corporate retailer, if and where I was merely arbitraging coupons in non-adjacent market sectors…I was no longer interested in stealing their action figures if the night crawled with unafraid laughing intruders, flashing in through the gardens in blaring white masks pounding on the windows suddenly if I am dozing there very tripping. ady just wants her orgasm but its going soft already, she don’t bargain with jiggalos, you’ve had your pillions to make good. Punk jacks off a minute. The midriff’s armpit is deep and nobody wants to be unpaid. Retard in departure for faith, and these articles we cannot accept upon firth alone. The mason winks and calls my booty. We are on your phone with their hackers, their new programmatic enabler called iHaq. “The name’s Poop Boob. G_y is typifying again. Can we get some verification on his gibberish? “Don’t bring meat onto this.” Insensibly gnarly, always having it burned. Humble me by hovering and lowering unpaid in a streak.
Before the end of the projected calendar daily instructions for carrying out the plan of the bank warp was accomplished with a production stock of compelling paper redeemable for a scam called “weed trick.” There is a floundering plant that five billion people like. You’s few thousand most influential continentals use the collider to scare people into not growing it even though they want to. This imprisonment cartel prohibits it like a kid’s game of tag, anyone who gets caught growing this plant for themselves or their friends goes to jail. Some people manage to grow some anyway, and everyone else who wants it because its good buys it from them. Of course the prison cartel and their inlet agents produce it the most!. Blob Jax are a commodity that balances favorably against the coupon in a thriving industrial ponzi state. This mediated market condition is one in which the assets and aspirations of the customers are aligned w/ the inferior retailer. “To the example on media display please! So much hs been made from the blast of veal and light that escapes me! Dome of the rock salad served by some rogue. He waits as a tray arrives, then expertly decorates two cakes, related in coital thematism. This confection is yours to mash up.
*Worqa-day it is a sign of certain illness if a respondent, be that person pensioner or prisoner, declines an offer of free blob-jax. Methods of charitably distributing blob-jax raise some suspicions. the beneficiaries of this charity best have a cultural context for apprehension of invidious distinction in the reception of blob-jax. In particular the distinctions meriting the award- the recipient may imagine that their virtue bought the Luck or that their success in crime did the same. Was it this or that attribute- if the donor doesn’t have a clear spatial lack of blob-jax than any awarded amount will be without Pavlovian benefit. On camera or off, and the trophic blob-jax is/are awarded.
I’m past my personal deadline. Time flies like a snake of jets cris-crossing the sky one after another. Misanthropic digital-hominid hybrids narrate the shape of monetary policy to the organic executives at the planetary galactic bank. They bug my organic mess to stimulate the binary stillness with arbitrary tremors. And why is that? The noise assimilation layer combines with the input of the live conversation and suggestions of possible alternatives present themselves with greater certainty. I’m accurately overhearing instant discussions, but its difficult to discern if its my own thought I’m overhearing or paranoid external radio traffic matching the brain wave thought frequency patterns close enough to simulate it via alien lance based repeater/retrans-o broadcaster. On an inaudible frequency I hear questions, comments, criticism and commercials.. Who is still on the couch that would not be swiftly broken if they stood to resist?

So operating procedure. So I’m blob-jaxing around the bend, yes? But what happened? Tell us about the twin obsessions that arose after the incidents of no-mention. Every single consumer with any insurance or balls seized upon the opportunity of your defect to cash in on the bail-outs. Having a sweeping recall freed millions of consumers to swim away into a brief but significant window of opportunity. The manufacturer has determined that the accelerators are prone to stick in the full throttle position unpredictably. The time to experience airbags profitably had arrived. This catch snaps hisses and pops more than my man. You’re on the high-tech sluice ride with an insurance mogul and a an unwitting agent of the transmitter. Something’s gone and it isn’t covere! A criminal flagrancy at large behind this
architectural edifice- a wrinkled meridian fearfully represents the secret arcane in barely noticed mundanity. But there it jilts, unmistakably named and numbered. I guess we sort of had to pass each other’s windows. They want me off the project and looking at porn. Its quite inviting because when they put a porn-piñata of me on display they portray me as well dressed, in a glittering sequined green vest with medallions of the phallocrats. What doesn’t anybody post pictures of their credentials anymore? I never did because I was always scared it wasn’t legal but now that my counsel is telling me to cripple myself for just thinking it I reckon to do it so as to be at least deservin’ of it. So I’m advertising to investigate this hankerin.’ And its not a simple case of personal conflict about the very issue, because I’ve studied to practice a series of moves that a real beauty I used to get blob-jax from used to do. What I saw in that is the way that people become fairly obsessed by common archetypes, when they’re alight behind a semi-translucent cultural and financial veil. So I want to enact the beautiful series of moves that she used to do.
I could join the whores in line waiting to sell their scripts. In a friendly way they gesture for me to join them in the room where they wait for their work to be accepted for alteration. Rocking mutely in their chairs and saluting with deformed limbs, eyes bulging, they seem to be excited that someone with so invisible a disability as me is their equal. “Yes, I’m cool, I thought you would never ask..” But I am not their equal. My disability is the dysfunctional opposite of theirs- though I have speed on the keys the note is vapid. though it is formed intricately and completely within it still searches for a beginning, as they constantly apprehend new history illuminating the thesis, delaying the start of the told exegesis. The hand that would write halts aught, transfixed by their limitless interior view. The wandered focus of my imagination’s eidolon distressingly mirroring the migrating magnetic poles of the planet.


November 20, 2008. 1. 3 comments.