look – the city busts and bursts, biled to its breasts. it eats pigass. i walk tomorrow on a highway of false conciliation. i seek reassurance like a stoplight. it begins raining pigass – pigassing pigass – on birthdays of a dead queen. babel 2. everyone goes celebrating topward, mingling on the brueghel, their heads martinis, genitalia yakking like a film fest. since the langwiches have already fragmented and theres no god, the only thing to do is reunite all 5000 of them into 1. happening anyway. go english. replace the dollar.
آمين
i count passing whonyms on the damned and perfect avenues from my perch on a levitating slice of poopperoni pizza. one seven fourthousandsixhundred&ninetytwo negativefour eightmillion twelve. i love counting. reminds me of covering my rubberduckie with poo in the bathtub. always squeaked differently like that. think the pooduckies are still in a box with my report cards in mommy’s shoebox in the grave.
آمين
a womyn walks by taller than the burj khalifa. i see a man scampering up her side. he’s breaking the law and a crowd gathers cheering him on. the woman swats at him but he’s good and she doesn’t get him until he’s on her upper-right cheek. but he’s not dead and falls into her cleavage. shit she says. a bank manager says he’ll help get the guy out. no one laughs.
آمين
there are only two worlds left – the vertical and the horizontal. soon we shall all be as tall as clouds and just as fluffy. the dead shall do our agriculture. the dead shall cut our trees. let us eat acid like fish. let us microdose nations. we are natural like gopro karmas. we do not eat placenta.
آمين
oh mamapapagod of our cloacals
stuff us in thine hairdried blowblown gadgets
the city is our debt and fenestration
our fling d’tongue and hash du mal
آمين
i am the city. i count to hell or well in nonsense. you’re a fallen number in my cleavage. i leave you there to die betwixt the squishy titties. who ever sees the same mirror twice? who ever sees the same same twice shall die.
آمين
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