I'm going out of town for four days, so it should be about as long before I post here again.
I'm joining my parents and sister on a trip to Lake Arrowhead . . . and although I'll miss cryptess and a few other things . . . I think I'd be really pleased to get out of San Diego.
It's funny how you can be feeling just absolutely fine and then suddenly, upon seeing someone, you can feel like less than nothing. I mean . . . what are you supposed to do when someone you love really despises you? I swear, I think I'm gonna be a teenager for the rest of my life . . .
Everything's seemed so lurid lately . . . like the little pizza I just threw away. Lurid, messy, bombastic . . . it's like a Loony Toons cartoon.
And I have such a headache . . .
Mother bird is a construction of succulent bone with tender strips of eats.
Sagging blank black eyes of flesh--love handles gripped by the hate.
Rolling stomach cancer down the hill, ridden by the laughing, dying dog.
The sky takes up its mallet and crushes a village
Under warm sweaty bright blue.
Mother's tongue is mouldy, crackled black green and wet.
Drawn across resigned little beaks.
The cooking dead hold their party under the burning, baleful sun.
A stillborn Phoenix licks her feathers in a heap of dead print while the food looks silently on.
No one eats here to-day. Because everyone is food.
The music is the stench of rot, the melody consists of tiny streams of bloodied pus.
To sit on a bench is to grow smaller and smaller and no ant ever assisted an alien.
The air is blank, though, really. You decided to write using a handy, bloodied quill.
Your mouth is rank with the taste of your own flesh, and your juices and gristle and rubbery texture pop about your teeth your gums and throat . . . Everyone leaves their eyeballs in a tray.
You wonder whose she'll get.
The phoenix is laughing with a contingent of pony corpses. The horizon swishes to clear, the air flashes opaque heat, everyone's gaily dressed, and bumping into each other.
No one is eating, but people get eaten, and the stench of food is ripe in the air.
It's so heavily bright that it's dark. Blues like paint, red like Stop, green like plastic.
Pungent tastes, tastes, tastes . . . we're together, dripping apart. We can't speak so we laugh like trumpets.
Our ears bleed and the sky spirals . . . we are where we shall have always have been.