Nada Stink In Titles

Wake up one one one. First world layoff, now one word, short week, don't come in. Meanwhiles, inedible fruits, leaves soup, feces water, grain scraps, and if you're lucky the good stuff only adulterated with 1/5 rocks. Brain surgeon from Pakistan, what it's capitalized, is this the 1960's I know nothing of and keep hearing about like respect for pilots and Grandpa and learned and capital institutions, smiles in his cab in Canada where there are no bombs, just a few, runaway fares, maybe some shit talk, but that could be Lahore or Hyderabad, save this one or your family is dead, this is a movie directed by our ever and own internal inviolate alien; what intersections, or is that India. Love letters for pussy. Make your play playa. Wake up one one one.

Shopping Socked In

L'affaire Madness-off. I'm sore myself from your sore spot. There's your love letter. I want to talk about the game and how fuck fucked it all is, get off on humping the yoga ball of my fake self satisfaction, sadness before, during and after. So many crushed peons. I declined. She's my life and she'll never know, not really, because I'm and my words are weak, skin the only speech, come through the fog for me; I'm your fag. What're services Mommy?

Why Am I Signed In

What is it? Sulfuric acid, for the eyes of men who tell lies. Government/gangs can't be bothered to log out? Bastids. But why should they be any different than the other scarred hollow sockets, really. Bichons. And they'll grasp the whip, right after this shot of upgrade between my teeth is over. Ova, ova, ova. Don't need to understand, past caring or never did anyway, this is for the one who thinks I'm just passing by and myself, the babies I'd never let read it, but they will. You say you want a better life for them, then eat the world. What's to say?

Tinkers Are Back Baby

By the printer guy Matt. Damn man. But then I thought of drinking cholera water out of a puddle and didn't feel so bad for you. Shit you know it, I learned (hm) a long time ago the reality is what you make it, so pretend and be happy, save time for fetal bouts and foot stomp though, we're all babies, even the ones with paper skin, funny things with hair growing out of it. Your pretend won't protect you, and no I don't think it's funny tying death to shit, but what the fuck can we do. Naomi says revolution, Dear Husband says work through the system, but neither one will matter and it's already too late. What grace!

Immiseration Of The Asses

It wasn't what you thought it was. Wanted it to be. Quick before the baby wakes, get out everything. Like dreams are to your day, week, that thing that happened long ago. Too late, twenty pound terrorist stirring, soon to wake. God I love them; the small and smaller sure, but the big one is my just right favorite, god I miss her; dirty dirty deleted things.