i see the breasts a kilometre away, slippery sacs of bitumen curled in chromatica. that the sidewalk has the courage to uphold such insolence is a reason – yes, a feeling – to keep on living. the penis on concrete is nothing next to this dialectic of jug. as they pass me, proud as astronauts, their power merges briefly with the planned trees. we are omnipotent only in distances.
horses in the city are martians in antarctica – anachronisms of space, anatopisms of time.
you’re a cartoon. how could you not be, living as you do in an animation of my testicles?
financial district food courts on sundays are empty libraries – the book of money folded 13 times, crafted into elephant moneygami. here is the formula given in the empty library for folding the book of money into an elephant –
W = π t 2 3(n-1)/2
jimmy the greek is muter than heraclitus, mr sub torpedoed by the absent book.
wheres your bitumen when i want it? crashing on schiaparelli? lunching in lourdes? braying in sanctuary? sucking gourds?
the city is transgendered polygendered postgendered agendered patagendered silvigendered botoxgendered nilgendered fendergendered, sexed like the union of a bonobo and a bank machine. it and i make love like turkey and a signature of acid
hylopropic psychotropic namarupaprobiotropriapic
rhizotropic
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here is the elephant that molested me on the streetcar on the 26th day see how well it sees feel the power of its trumpy trunk note the cuteness of its weeny tail observe the hidden one we favour our undertakings now comes the final era of the sibyl's song |
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