she appears again, that cappuccino prophetess in situ in tutus, titted like lactating time in iridescent and chthonic temples on a tumor of my brain nipple-pointing to words being written on the planetarium of my cranium by her projectile urine – unum unum plubi thummim ibi – i say i am lost without you. but she tit-slaps me and pours hot wax in the wounds of my sex.
such are the vatic ways in this age of the death of prophets.
the people pour through sieves of doors, their teeth chattering a billion billion languages. communication is the new disunity. we talk like keyboards.
i went to the soo to sue a sue so sue sewed a shrew on a shawl and the law rued the screw that saw sue in a sewn shrew shawl sued in the soo.
caffeine? the city says to the country morphine? brucine? punk zine? hot teen? raster clean? and the country replies, calfeine, moophine. cocaine? the city says to the suburbs ecstasy? dope? and the suburbs reply, coco chanel, midiocracy, grope dope. lala lightcow? the city says to itself baba airpig? dada woofput? mama meowface? fafa furballs? and the city replies haha joydick gaga stuffguns zaza namebusts jaja mortfuns tata carzooms nana simzests …
i walk into a kfc-smelling starbucks one rubescent night and there are the marquis de sade and joan of dark getting hitched to a train of discarded iphones pulled by a team of heaving ministers. i’m asked to be best man. not having anything better to do i agree and get to be also worst man, best woman, worst woman, blood martini maker, and blood martini. the bonuses of spontaneous volunteerism in urban environments.
the city, we have mused with and without many substances, is only slightly less than the sum of langwich and silence and so we enter the city and wander in it to mark the gap between the city and the sum with our flesh.
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