dreaming of toilet again.
this time from perspective of a horse fly buzzing through the kitchen of a neighbor of east frisian origin and wilhelmine rigor, hence very cautious in my search for edible things, devouring findings on top of a cabinet. complete upper floor recently renovated from large inherited sum, equipped with a surplus of seating furniture, the whitest of which is being tested by my ass while I decide to find the interior overall surprisingly tasteful, when its undistinguishedness is somewhat emblematic of the house
Got over my fear of staple guns and oil painting all in a few days!
The reason I fear oil painting isn’ t what you’ d expect tho , it’ s because of its flammable nature and sometimes I feel like the solvent has a conscience and knows I’ ve used a lighter before and will punish me with spontaneous flames for it
At the end of the labyrinth made of stalagmites and stalactites clenched like teeth was the excavation campsite under the ceiling as thick and as tall as the atmosphere.
Though my role was Blind Cheerleader, they were relieved to see me, perched on the thinnest bench lining the wall of a 20-story truck, like guards for the cargo containing a small green light in an abyss. I traced a spiral of shells with my foot instead of relishing collective anticipation because I thought I would have time later to chat.
bombarded with flyers of biblical-philological content and an embarrassing amount of interest by a pious preacher, close friends begin to touch themselves amid a conversation about what touches them;
the cucked Christian holds a beautiful oil painting showing the boy’ s likeness, a red gauze cloth hanging atop his downward-looking face, over the head of the real boy.
Meanwhile, he’ s standing behind a beer table on top of which she lies on her back, both fully undressed and masturbating in close proximity but with no point of contact
his hunt for the jerk who keeps sending their dishes back leads Uwe to my poking-a-halved-risotto-stuffed-quince-with-the-brass-cutlery self. shame he looks like a boiled egg. we punch in the face.
busboy picking at his Homicidal Liu acne scars. i tip him one million, we punch in the face.
the secret sixth petal of Ocean Flower Resort i use as a junk drawer: my stun grenades, my curdling micellar vinaigrettes, but Uwe’ s own murdering combos. please, he hates me to a reasonable extent.
Fate’ s grasping tightly while I’ m hard right next to you
In every tint of green, smirking with a golden hue
I don’ t know if it’ s fated or if I’ m just faded
Maybe it’ s both cuz I’ m retarded too
The sun now sets its orange cast
So I counted every shadow of the future found in each n every past
Got a burn from being in the sun too long
And another burn from Nairing till my dysphoria’ s gone
Thinking about how I’ m all the cis bitches favorite, but it sucks to suck cuz they don’ t even have the balls to say it
aging war criminal dream, inflected oscillating. delirium–tedium, POV–documentary, sometimes i’ m watching the guy getting morphine and sometimes i’ m the guy, morphine’ d.
his hands are freckled and wispy thin-skinned, jagged knee bones visible through pants. spiritual inverse of ‘dick print’ , but i’ ve forgotten the crime(s) anyway so who gives a fuck. phone password is a numerical palindrome. writing a note about unhappy couples reifying joint hallucinations to feign intimacy. woman sees a little green man in every doorknob she touches. man takes it a step further, says it’ s their baby.
A man grabs me from behind while I’ m peeing at the urinal.
And I’ m turning my head and looking at him and saying what are you doing but I’ m still peeing. And he’ s just standing there frozen. Chris Brown is playing over the speakers.
While you were suffering from a severe severe fever you asked me to bring you a bowl of melted snow. We lived together in a small village on a mountain. And. You always worked so hard for me.