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Hot White Andy.

For Us

"Que l'on soit difficile et que l'on choisisse au sein de
l'abondance ... nothing could be simpler."
--de Sade
Love deepely grounded, hardly is dissembled.

Lavrov and the Stock Wizard levitate over to
the blackened dogmatic catwalk and you eat them. Now swap
buy for eat, then fuck for buy, then ruminate for fuck,
phlegmophrenic, want to go to the windfarm,
Your * kids menu lips swinging in the Cathex-Wizz monoplex;
Your * face lifting triple its age in Wuhan die-cut peel lids;
ng pick Your out the reregulated loner PAT to to screw white
chocolate to the bone. The tension in an unsprung
r trap co
 [right arrow] The tension in an unsprung trap.
 ck QUANT unpruned wing: sdeigne of JOCK
 of how I together grateful anyway I was
 Its sacked glass, Punto
 [right arrow] What is
be done on the sly is manic gargling, to
to blacken the air in hot manic recitative from a storm throat,
WLa-15 types to Tungsten electrodes Aaron Zhong,
feazing that throat into fire / under its
hot life the rope light thrashes in its suds, [is] Your chichi news
/ Dr. Unicef Cheng budget slasher movie hype on Late Review
I keep dreaming about you every single night last
night I you making love Stan, I didn't know him then
it hurts, and I disappear but the nights stick.
Abner Jon Louima Burge Cheng.
 [right arrow] Ab ... etc.
I am adaptable for Binzel and Lincoln and Panasonic
my swan neck my shielded arc, my gap of hot fire
Lavrov sidesteps in the long arabesque of equivalence. What is
being this lids clampdown, being this cheek slant
onto something, being this duck breast implant
but what is there
 to eat in a specific fang,
 defecation being otherwise a welding helmet,
 being a gas lens,
 being this hot skit spilt on glass
eat all of me like a dispassionately incinerated fish cheek,
I want being phonic into your intestine, to cry
into my own blistered eyes on the inside of your stomach,
not dead as the sea but cracking; disjunctive part
lives will then cancel the asymmetry of self-inclusion,
each of them will have the whole of love in it.
You witness protection flourish as autonomy, CPA Order
Number 22, Camp Bermel, hot white Vietnamization et. al.
Things change. Outside, people are different.
Lavrov becomes fraudulent. He and Johnson
Lee no fuck you. Then everyone necks the gouache to
dream her own acid scavengers, dream his own blood
 geyser knotted to cream tied out
 horizontally as a tripwire between foot-spas.
 Want the enormous tragedy of the dream?
 Last night I
 of you very hard and
 real I have put my fingers
 on you and your fa
 ce if you were
 here Russ Cheng
I mocking the crap Peisistratidai at reflector Ningbo,
into dead right crunch up your debit virtu Baode,
we present a fist with the power of law. Poetic sound
bites down hard into the fire blanket.
The enormous blackened air strives on toward production
of the zirconiated stable arc, the price war in the mouth
 * a stupid inflatable thing "like to a bear."
 (pw symbolised by 3 gummy ribs: check
 * Andrew Cheng
 (pw is the passion of the non-identical in metre)
Do not leave me for Stan whom you make love with.
Each time they manage to levitate back what happens is you
lose a life Hyundai and make the art screen go black.
Beyond all this the city glows in natural repose,
listening to Winds of Change or Kindertotenlieder.
 In an empty window love dead
 to the frame recapitulates its stare, you push
 it wrong flat lips to the dewy
 basin of tin and hang there, come wrong.

 You soften inside when
 it is all ok, mimicry of the subaltern
 love droid voice initiates
 longing beyond its own fallacy this time.

 The forward ruse, the bright
 air reflected in water, the calling
 features all defy lazy
 song in astriction and flick away the cumulus.

 Hallucinate the glass to
 push your best face through, making up
 with anything
 basin of tin and hang there, not gone.

 You harden inside as
 really virtuosic as wrong, avenging it
 the small hurts
 like cutting water, like blind eye curfews.
The tack hammer is infinitely merciful. Spread out in the
carpark on the seabed your part lives throw frisbees
about and unblock their genital oblativity; but
the repulsed foetus still in character fastidiously vomits.

At the committee meeting I spotted a woman in light,
she drifted past the monitor, I remember that
they were showing Bleaching Lenny. (1) The snow was
even and undisturbed outside as we fingered
the tungsten evaporation boats and screamed shit.
Square snow blackened by manic recitative.
We turned to see The Enterprises Center relatively
waft up in the imperial Wuhan sky like fish smoke,
blinking, glittering in our eyes,
and he turned to me, Akinsola Akinfemiwa, and said
the woman you see in light is light itself--
the light of the world, its copula and armrest,
she is the fulguration, the axis about whom endless
birth of heart revolves in magic fire and in fury
you must make her love you. She is Andrew Cheng,
imperator of the sled, backstreet lumen naturalis,
acting CEO for the true-way arc of priapic boredom,
you must be the voice she falls in love to categorically.
But Akinfemiwa is a fucking idiot.
We outsourced the snow to the most important hill
flung it on the dogmatic helipad, we watched
in livid concentration as the sky, in pursuit
of the protocols for our overdue Borland Delphi haiku split in
two like a smitten Ramadi heart, tediously equivocal--
but was I perhaps wrong to be maddened by Akinfemiwa?
And how would I know? From the dream?
The shit we screamed drowned out the next show entirely,
Blacking Up Lavrov, the episode where Johnson
Lee and the Russians rub hands at the stupidity
of the gouache drinkers, gnashing on their intestines and fire,
listening to Winds of Change or Mozart.
 But this is enough to
 be real with, have the basin tilt fat one
 thing less to worry
 shove out of my mind that mimicry.

 You soften inside when
 it is working sex to be canny and elegiacal
 fridge stains across
 the linoleum do not stop to wrong you.

 Longer than the contact of
 thought with loss the need for either
 you not to fade or
 never forget but then the chalk you eat.

 Stick glass in it,
 to insist that the trespass is real too and
 that you can break
 shove out of my mind banning that.

 You harden inside as
 if there is nothing in it, all to be endured less
 thinly at work on this
 in nonchalant, feverish cooperation.

Love realistically abandoned by Andrew is not shit,
thin rain drifts like torn roofing across the palace
dancefloor and your ravenous white lips snap after it,
ravenous for white blood, queuing for the other face
amputation shut in in the flaming Nestle beach hut.

The Zhejiang Hengsen rope light to the tortoise hash--
hot white passion to the chastushka in livid grout,
but not just in the grout, really blocked in it--
amity to the pyrite on the ironing board, what is
it for this rapture of transitivity, this equivalence hypodermic,
the infinity of desire? What do I spread for?
Long wind straightens unfinishable and equated sea.
Cracked shut. Disorder is the enemy of progress.
All distant objects are veiled in a species of bright obscurity:
omnidirectional scanning allows any Article
orientation provided the Article jargon faces the scanner.
As you know, this holds for Article 2 up.
 fig. (a)
 Article 2
 Article 3
 Article 4
Retrogression beyond this is just dada to a brick wall,
heartsquirt and neoplatonic drivel about the origin.
Cheng necks: 1. your Sex on the Bleach. 2. your Colostrum Slammer.
But the rapture, what is its negatum?
 It is whispers
Cheng the Fetischcharakter, not of commodities but of dialectic
itself see through the Moscow limo windscreen pyromantic
oxygen stew transmute watch it slavered by the Beijing
kosmos onto new eyes superstitious to their frotted core,
whoring the shut lids they claim merely to underwrite!
The Zhejiang Hengsen rope light to the tortoise hash.
You soften inside the to, harden in the craniofrontonasal Berkshire
Disappointed AmEx to the phlogiston, or make up your own (using "to").
 Each is delivered and to each,
 transverse adamantine.
Unnecessary examples followed, gunned out from
the heterodyne r trap transhumanced into OTC peroxide argument,
cf. want to go to the windfarm.
 Photoreceptors Against Cruelty to Landmines!
 The Made-Whole Johnson Lee to easySaltMeInFire!
 Rapture of Transitivity to Hot-White
Cheng swarms off demosthenizing on the double in double X[alpha][rho]
He always does this. You get used to it. It is
what brains means. You know, brains:
UNHCR Damascus budget slash, something must be
done, for starters say no to outrages upon personal dignity,
dispassionate Postpasseist antipasti. Abner Jon
Rib Bag UHT Honest Doubt Bungalows Cheng Jr.--pizza?
In the dream is it really obscure, that slide-rule inner
in slide-shadow fat cut a rect | iccant from fingers
exit round the car. Show me. Angular Des, you wish you had come
up with something cutting to say back to Cheng
at the time, like fuck you and your idiotic X[alpha][rho] Cheng.
The car leaves. Coke into my ass through a funnel.
But I love you despite the boring terrorism
 of particularity,
 fading like parity,
 ground spilled into water
 cuff slung hot across the abraded
 jar shows particul | me screams
 me despite
 me I love you, rope 1
You are so running out of time. Run impressed rope / trap out of it.
 Everywhere to run to, everywhere to hide
 the salami (soppressata) of the body apolitic,
 the ad in grout
 says let me out
 so do
 now do it again
 do it
Rojar shows up.
 Let it all out.
 You want to fuck (buy, eat etc.) him
 so to begin
 detourn some Lenin.
Rojar shows up.
"A patriot is not a missile." Nihil Obstretrics Inc.

Rojario climbs to his knees,
divine afflatus of EN 1783,
inwardly he kens himself the deputy April soot shower.

ROJAR: A quiescence so fucking dead
 catchy the sky cracks up its earplugs.
VYSHINSKY: In the past I never locked any of my doors. In fact, I never
 had a key to my home. In fact, I never had a home. I was
 never able to have a home, nor a door. Homes, moreover, were
 in fact not capable of being had, by me or by anyone who was
 not me. And what was true for homes was doubly true for
 doors. There were no homes to be had and there were no doors,
 nor was there any mechanism for locking. In fact, locking was
 an absurdity. And if locking was an absurdity, locks were
 twice the absurdity that locking was. Homes then not being
 capable of being had were if anything still less capable of
 being locked, which in any case was an absurdity which was in
 no case so gross an absurdity as in the case of homes. Keys
 were shit. Now I understand I live in a very secure area, but
 ever since the attack I find myself making sure all the doors
 of my house are locked before I go to bed. Or even after
 I go to bed, when I am most asleep. Every time I do this I
 wonder, What is it I am afraid of? And sometimes, Am I
 afraid? I wonder what I am afraid of and I wonder if I am
 afraid. I am afraid of sticky damage and of invasion. But am
 I afraid of them? I mean, is it I who am afraid? Could it not
 be just a part of me? And am I afraid? I am afraid of the
 Cheng bubble, of Cheng futures, Cheng chic, offshore Chengs,
 of Cheng penetration, Cheng derivatives, of being wrongly
 Chenged, of war between the affluence nerds and the bliss
 nerds, of Cheng laundering, of One Night Chengs, of a chalk
 Bo Derek, of 7-11, of a miniscule 7-11 concealed in a special
 Yngwie Malmstein Signature version of Duchamp's Hidden Noise,
 I am afraid of Chinese whispering and orientation talk in the
 evacuated Houston Death Star, of the rogue Cheng, of laying
 waste my powers, of shattered glass on kidney, of being bent
 over, of Cheng's skirt length theory, of parallel Chengs, of
 the emerging Cheng with an impossible lock in his stomach
 which my hand reaches for despite me clutching a key made of
 terrifying crimson shit which erupts in flame and burns my
 fingers away to freezing yellow ash, I am afraid of the seven
 figure Cheng in one state of mind. But is it my life, and is
 it a homage to bathos? This is the first year I have been
 asked to wear a name tag at school. Anyone visiting the
 school has to be temporary in order to enter. Both Tommy and
 Benjy Cheng warned us when our nation was brand new. They
 taught us not to let fear change what we could never better
 believe in.
CHENG: I melt the glass with my forehead.
STAN: Who is this prick holding up the placard for Stan.
 Stupidity is the glass ceiling of decathexis.
 Which is frosted in Stan at the personnel door.
 Philosophy is what makes you feel
 whatever you feel truth is.
AKINF.: 'Widerspruch Sprach Frei: The Oedipol Duplex With One Back.'
 (draft version)

 Who cares if the President is blown by his intern,
 so long as he doesn't macerate the innocents.
 Or vice-versa.
CHENG: l'objectivation infidele des producteurs ...
 la survie augmentant selon ses propres lois ...
STAN: Who is this.
CHENG: In fire and vinegar swings the total beige,
 thinking in a roundabout manner and by means of bricolage.
CHENG: We can only try to love ourselves as wholly as possible,
 to love ourselves unconditionally, in bed and in debt,
 forsaking all others.

You know, thinking: Unangemessenheit, erection blues.
So Cheng shows up at the poetry reading,
looking ridiculous like some bleachaholic Ethiopian queen
on a crap metabathos trip, scorched scraps of tightrope for sandals,
you wouldn't fucking believe it, I mean
what kind of ontological AC-DC thinks he has to wear black
lipstick to hear Joan Retallack? And who cares?
There were hot milk flecks on his bougie mouth anyhow,
Afghan diamonds in the rapture of the strobes.
So anyway we listened to The Reinvention of Truth.
It was some brilliant adumbration, Romantic propositivism
left in the wing for dust, live and postresistible,
quiescence a Cage could at best have dreamt of.
In fire and vinegar swings the total beige.
But Cheng totally ruined it. After necking his Diet
Styx and smacking his aflame lips he staggers
up and grabs the mike, condemns the whole
phalanstery to his performance poetry, some kitsch Ovidian thing
Raytheon and Erinys, bathotelescopic beyond belief,
literally, then some thinky retro poetical work in progress
full of you soften and you harden, all that fashionable
legless jackbooting of the abstract second person, inevitable
prosodic botox as points de capiton,
 * inevitable hackneyed sex negativity
 * inevitable recusant lyrical I
 * " muzakological Coucher du Roy klaxon solo
 * " UNHCR Damascus budget s
etc, until finally this hot white Cheng-scenester
But I live in imperative sympathy with you. Put down her
drink and ran *
to the front. Ran up to Cheng. Y
You in a red dress in my dream, being the entirely beautiful.
The tension in an unsprung trap. I am grateful
I am grateful You stay.
Russ ran to Cheng, thinking
you know she She is for my only life impossible
to pull out from
my heart, my fingers snap bleach snaps,
farce is the third term and is perjury incommensurable with sex.
You will not repeat this but will repeat not repeating it
my dream, yrrour of my mazed head,
The Zhejiang Hengsen. The workers for the Olympics
from Kent
* ht eines gilt dir, Fiasco Chong, Cyclone Shredder Chong
g Diamonds flaring glasse, | lost to Hebei
 * grateful any KENTSOFT / HEBEIHARD
to Fin. to him and said
 My bed is that by the window.
 I speak to my bed. Your sheets are alexithymic
 throat fat that rocks flirt under,
 I get to them risking the intensity out of my life.

 I am into communicating this,
 you are this right and dead in the ear
 that there is a deeper peace crackling under,
 and right in the head that spit love out.

 My bed is that by the ceiling.
 It circles it like you, a lunacy of dust
 that squared with a mouth in total lust
 you had better quickly scream about.

 You soften inside when
 eat the same restaurants and be together said Mr. Mustapha
 You harden inside when
 Brushroll____Agitator_Parts_565.html stop trying contact

 I wait to communicate this.
 Take my face to the window doing next what
 now you do. I need
 but will not have you, go instead crassly skeletal.
 My bed is by the window.
 I speak to you. You are impossible to forget,
 the face ecstasy screams under,
 lighting the world you damage and repossess.

 I am communicating this.
 You undiminishably are what I mean by all
 love defiant under
 the shadow of a dispassionate end in the right head.

 I go on without you.
 Impossibility mitigated by the comedic brake,
 on loving to square that
 mitigation with the future hermetic sex square.

 You soften inside but can't,
 submission is just the disquiescence of the ecstatic scream.
 You harden inside but at
 last can't, it is simply pointless to live without that light.

 I wait to say this.
 I now say it, without you to your face and without
 knowing how stupid is
 my desire for the next big thing: CHINA.

But simply pointless life in sum is the continuum like any other.
Lavrov and the Stock Wizard levitate. Flaring
glass will wipe your eyes, will learn you self to cherish,
in fact but you are rightly tender always. Really you
are whatever follows, whatever loss unspared. Pointed hints
of the Industrial Zone are collaged at risk of
your lips bricking hot wrong into the soda gap, livid white fire
pipes up about my teeth and guts and open door,
its hot shielded arc red with dilemma. Your tenses are
 the wanting of desire
 your tenses are the wanting of desire
 [later: the wanton, then won ton of desire]
dysphagic rollmop Kebton Akinfemiwa fuck at last can't their
violent snow
 dying to turn yellow
 in warm light / next wave of A & E closures
 living to turn blue
 in the hot white blur of living screwed to
 fat throat recto
 an army without culture is a fucking dull-witted army
 an army without culture is fucking a dull-witted army
 rose-tint auroral fistfuck
light points your face at the news. The flaring glass is visualised,
and at last the phantasmatic oesophagus is fed out through it: shatter
me shatter me screams the ski lift at
 soap the equated sea dream up the scam
 live up the dream
 how like you
this finale to the whole Chang question the whole problematic
congelation of hot genitals wrapped in the Houston Chronicle
to crack its metaphysic ad banner. In white out
your tenses are the wanton of desire, gazing through the
Xi'an YMCA window at The imitation Gap lit up scampi-eyed
desire krush ex necromat it lives my own way,
soft hard soft hard soft, skewered by Metulla and Kfar Kila,
and other names besides, names to know and do.
I accumulate you: sky crated in Binzel and 'Change, crated in
I accumulate you: hot sky deserted by Abner and tax phosphor.
The superpower to come is love itself. Articles 2
up and the Antepasseist 0. But since this is my only life
I accumulate you Andrew Lumocolor, not fit for waiting
away uptight in fire shopped to spit, but a real man
accumulating men, desire and intensity until I die.

Our money is where your mouth is, clammy as that
strict blip of successive exit holes, into the light over
which is dubbed the light in filth-blistered orthognathic 2D flying
elf neon crossbar 261. To buy it if you see
what we mean is to see by it: nothing matters more
any time, just kick back / any time, in moccasins
in a group of business men who deal on Art export it
you just skip back three lines now
than being in the dark (in maybe better than out).
Among several adjustments coming up is the adjustment
of the mood lighting. And action. Adjust the mood
lighting with our view to a good enough good
match made in:
 The real peritoneum of Aristotle.
 The bedroom.
 The western planet.
 The real peritoneum of Socrates.
 The system.
tch made in: Diebold-owned basinasal SEXX shout out
your name here: Kia-Ora. There is some spunk on
the nail clippers in your mobile phone Irving you dickhead.
It's for the thinking man's population,
you pull the flush and BP petroleum like a cyclone fills
all the contented air from the wax ring to the bolt caps.
The characters will be Sergio et al. It will be
hard to read but strange, sounds like:
 the haft affix loosely proponent span
 blood group indexical self-cut
 (Prynne, To Pollen 26)
And the blues in the face will glow like the sky
light of fat-free ice, all alone you're up for the phased exit
from Hull manufacturing. To run out of a mind
to speak not just for standing in
 as a foam bun, it is
 what it is
 passion the agon
again in its occasionally antic and yet serious too
milk substitute for polymerizing my lid. It is what
it is and what is it it bleeds you dry for, on nights on
days on any shift in the universe
 of stars
 vault now puce
in fact on the verisimilitudinous rim shift itself, I
know there is tinned--am tinned I get up
and I go am asked, I get up by you irrit. fibroma what
is Roger Ailes and where. I call you at three in
him but not in the CEO part only the unspoiled penis,
I get down to the unspoiled protoplasm of his eros,
down to where it is dark and there are no sounds
Shah of the anti-banana republica, maybe sublated
into his icteric salute to Allah coming
up next. If he is him then who am I, and
who are you in the coconut shy--but you are Sergio
was it you said. And then again if he isn't, if no
such thing in fact is, then watch it because is
that you that flip-chart, then. The ass of this end is helical
/ screwed-down and probably not easy to tilt,
Sergio, 500 affiliates by the middle of next anything
you roll yourself into a tube we can make it
into your life for the taking--yes later but fuck all that
 (repeated later)
instead you shit meringue in a choke hold: Fox
is arrive now have we obtain the future our folk are real
need it you bet it did--new coverage new
exit hole in the throat to slip and pant through. Who will
 yet slip 8
 cents to 3
 and still be happy
 submits that what we
need is irony, a kind maybe of periphrasis, e.g. one
of those riddling and ceremonious subordinate
clauses faking nostalgia for pastoral, the words in it
 could be bent reed, on fire, Pot Rice,
or, materialistically
 a diisocyanate is reacted with a diol
 a word with you
sit spitroasted eclectically by 17.16 and 39.74 both,
thinking, they should be metaphors for the limits of compassion
and of its downturn, a kind of melancholy
or equally metaphors as breasts, Nesquik shot up a scalene eyeball
a medium of getting what face got the shit on 5
 O vision
scabbard rot before you break and are too late: unmade yet
already never dying they
 alone fly are a peristaltikos my
life shudders under their unfinishable tearing
you can't eat it you get it for nothing
 something about a significant player
 The way of Athens.
 no another O,
all in a tube. But, fuck all that. Set on fire the anti-mirror,
the headlights on the car going steady in front,
with Furtwangler doing Bach on the/my front speakers,
sex five-minute top-of-the hour the price of victory
is right read the hole in the water at the top you
made in Taiwan by breathing. It is nothing yet once
in you it shimmers like the cracked open sea,
within and without my eyes, in my open breathing
heart tanned pink. Does it recapitulate ap/ap_en_
stuff me to the hilt stuff or values a shade more excellent
rashes, allergies, Borax, alum, free washing soda,
Borax is the odd one out for the taxidermist
--from here you can get out by satirising disorientation
yes the flirting with getting out can be negative and not a forte
yes the disorientation is not political when it comes to it.
It is a disorientation of language. The nostalgia
 for pastoral stretches freely to material
 and signifier, rhymed with week-day.
 The anguish of that.
 The angoisse (For Mallarme).
You will never be the same again after your hair is going.
Alternatively by 29.96-47.76; alternatively, mind--.
Each way you look at it the trap it the low end of 52-week
frantic to be more loved. You been here a long
time Sergio if you feel like taking a leak or doing something
else like it on me. Without needing to be asked
twice I took the lift, stabbing the button for the thirteenth
floor and we both grinned all the way up: the news
was bad from the East, Zarobad gustatory in his crypt;
but good from the West: more rolling blackouts.

Therefore, SAN ANTONIO--a diisocyanate is gill
ant player if not then Clear Channel Communications
Inc. the my most popular station operator my most
radio station operator, has picked Fox News Radio
to be the primary source of national news for most
of its news and talk stations, officials announced Monday.
I don't know how to be who you want me to be,
but anyway am worth dying for it, look front with your total blood,
a significant worker. Instructions: A paper rectangle with
the following dimensions plays the orgasm your body
has at the photocopier, sort of thinking of Albert
Wohlstetter and his influential advocacy of precision.
Then an event,
A wet cry in the black night, sponges whip up the air,
toluene my officials my announced mine it.
 But, fuck all that.
(1) isomers lob up walnuts rearward of the cop barrier
fuck you full of love. Sunrays (--2) packed into
a glue-gun you fidget about with full of hate dive,
cascade, but not on
 your life or not.
 The effect
 is this.
Roger are you there. There is no-one touching my skin,
no-one touching my face. 98% of life there is
no-one I mean. The happy one submits that what we
need is the smirked exit from historical analysis
into a meaning caricature, bits of
 burlesqued metaphor and
 good turns
freed between the lines. E.g., Dribbling trotters
 on the treadmill like a tick say polemic--
night of my life, fell Ixodidae scream
 up it
is not passing but mainly ylinks&p=% faded yet
 alive and kicked--
funny enough you know, as you hang out the washing
 to 18.18, manual/ap
that this is the earth and heaven is on it
even though it is only the morning at the moment.
 You could be significantly
 less expensive.
The hot news spread, out like a fire. Everyone which
I knew could see in down the passage stolpern and me
however, to I didn't Obacht during one. Two
horses three cops and the towering black with the
two-speed elbow all vanish. Alum, Borax, aller
frantic to know who and where I am and also what I am
eating you for Sergio. What product the news
will be is what you will ask, and asking for it
must die, with your frostbitten anus round the ceramic Lassie.
It will be more customized and higher quality.

Trust no-one suspect everyone let's get up on with life.
Antimildew additives as fuck. So even to
be happy that means not by 500 affiliates but by slitting
up the mirror is a lazy trick, bones fuss about in your hand
like spandex in a donut. TDI. Working this closely
with a premiere national news provider for the
majority of our news/talk stations makes you get
in the picture. Remember Adorno on Oberflachenbedurfnisse?
Remember life on acid? John Hogan a dispensing head for the
polymer crisps peanuts hats and whatever chardonnay,
 did I ever say
how much I love you for. The sense put in
it is overwhelming. You can take that squirrel ornament
out now Albert but only if you want. The foam bun
life the invariable core tune, cantabile and you
be less whack--unequivocally to rise up as you hot up,
for the production of a part-rigid insulation music thing.
It all started to the meringue.
 But fuck all that,
 why run
 up your debts and down your hole
snug in the envy slit and a think. Near to the end
of the night with the litter everywhere and empty tin
sounds and smoke wallowing in the bubble bath
it was only cathected negation and me left.
What the fuck could we do next except learn from it.
Then, the helical slash screwed-down mint at
the base of the sick bag shimmers like adrenaline, and I know
 all my
life is possession, and possession I know is a lie,
 the wind
then feeds into the incredible flirting exhaust pipe,
DIY dark blue vault redecorated a kind of mauve by
percent rise in the celestial dough called News Corp.
 stick it to
me you
 savvy begrimed porno caudipteryx,
so much I bleed, in a sense transcending even 39.74 in
a sense. He is the human appurtenance of the Neocon revolution
and all the appurtenances are available for data organization
choking out useable error margins in the freedom reading
by any means optional in the revisionist stock uprising.
Clean me. Teeth / nails add cop Exchange%2 equals obedience it
are you going to get out of your sleeping bag and
look left and right at the anti-mirror with your
hand containing a toffee hammer or not. It is
Christmas. And in any case you should get out more.

1/ British reality TV show. Famous comedian Lenny Henry is caught on camera inadvertently bleaching himself, one body-part per week. In the final episode (8) of the series we are given to contemplate a morose Henry, by this point a ghastly super-natural alabaster from head to foot except for his (since episode 7) quasi-autonomous scrotum, engaged in teabagging an unnamed but invidiously Chinese companion of unfathomable gender. Henry fails to detect, through the dark suck-hole in her latex Marsilio Ficino mask, the tiny hidden natatorium of bleach fashioned ingeniously out of an aluminium peel-lid from a peach yoghurt pot Henry dared to lick out in the first episode (2).
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Author:Sutherland, Keston
Publication:Chicago Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2007
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