Coyotes Steal Sadness

Death brings you kisses dick.

Brain dead midget African albino.

There's no need for a suicide, ma'am. I'll kill you after I die.

There's no point in feeling anything. But I have to anyway since God is a damn dick.

Since I have no goddamned dick and just a sweet godblessed dick that tastes of fresh honeydipped strawberries, huh, Olivia Wilde, playing a stripper slash hooker, now I will take those 600 hundred blowjobs, prefferably before Monday, because I have an appointment in the Portal 2 universe for exclusive toilet contracts. Everyone poops, Olivia. You more than anybody. I do have a fetish for your feces, now let me mop up my penis and visit Microsoft Paint for a Rom Com and a little bubbly after wiping the grin off my mom's tears.

Carnival. Is that a place where people eat meat? I don't think anyone has a face that is not made of meat.

The trick is to not be asleep when you're awake.

One must train one's eyes to look at things as they are and notice everything.

That makes me sick. I can feel the bile creeping up into the back of my throat. I can almost gargle it. It feels chunky. Cheesy. It's hot, acidic.

Now try to grab clouds. Even when you can't see 'em, know they're there. Nowhere on Earth is the same as anywhere else on Earth.

You don't need hair. Everyone looks different at different times of day and night. Early morning is when God wipes his eyes and cracks his knuckles.

Rain comes down in various forms, in various eons, on various planets, in various universes. Sometimes, rain rains on humans. But only on Earth. Sometimes humans are under a roof when rain comes down. Sometimes feet get wet. Sometimes feet never get dry.

McBurger Salad, tomatoes and croutons.

I want to be a bad person right now. I don't want to remember what I will do, when later I feel different and want to be a good person and don't want to be discouraged by my memories of being a bad person and wanting to be a bad person.

I have to consider my future self. It comes down to going to sleep or looking at sex online.

I wish I were considerate and good my whole life. I wish I had a whole life. I want to be a baker. Or a baker's wife. I'd like my wife to be my neighbor.

Necklace made of semen. All his teeth are hollow and filled with rotten tree roots. I'ma very bady writer. Point into the white page.

Open windows are death traps. There is nothing worse than me and the internet. I am really very dead. I am like a post civil war ghost veteran with no balls and no heart and no brain and no eyes and no nose ... (just holes) and no mouth and no throat and no organs. I am very dry. I am hung up like a

poster... maybe a mountain. Maybe one cloud. Maybe a few tall trees. They have needs and cones. Home is the only love I need. Safe, beans, inside.

All at home now. I am an emotional hot potato. We're all kids. Failures are home, domes make fire. Coyotes steal sadness.

ChrumDay

Wet Asphalt Kills Careless Children

I'm a force field for your power wheels.

I feel death coming like suparstar inflation.

Pow Pow Powerwheels, Robots in DaSkies.

Brain Fudge Lighning Bugs in OutarSpace.

I forgot to forget I had forgotten.

I speak of Laura Silverman's modest bosom in my electric cherry syrup body hair remover chair.

What to do about the baby with no shoes.

Soak up the suds of bandwidth wavelength.

Silver Surfer Anal Bleaching Tokyo Rhythm Parolee Alphabetos in slinky parameters.

Bass Experiments with Robin Williams in a Suburban Timber Forest

Ask Later on Tuesday

                 I breathe wide open. My lungs are air vents. My rib cage is a busted open birdcage in the old lion's cage in the abandoned zoo in this once great city and now greatest city in this okay galaxy. Marion berries bleed in your cheeks. On the surface, butter slips like fake pancake flipping drips. Juice as high as a moon. Ask Marion, watch out for a better blue azure tiny beautiful eggs roll out of brown red and gold hens, free to roam around the house, although no one gets inside. Listless Abercrombie toaster waffles walk through a mall in dead winter as the atmosphere closes in on the helpless planet.
                  Hooray, hurrah, lights up his face, he's four years old today! Sprinkly twinkly heroic Bombay. Ask me about me later, I work, toadstools and Walmart, Ask me later, Where I am going, It is all forgotten, thus forgiven by default. Two sleds beg for more snow to cover their AstroTurf. Nothing in your stomach changes something in your brain.
                  About an hour later suits tangle glue feet smosh Elven silver puppies try to be noble and breed silky wormy desk monkeys look at scribble window plates and fires free pork taste tickle bugs run out forward grounded fault burst with opiate opaque shimmer flower tremble trample crumble demolish sinewy baked glazed frost porcupine fingertip auburn Felicia fuschia bramble grey dry dust pop cycle eucalyptus brazier frowned static Beluga scientist veiny soccer pattern on a paternal weakness slow tumor want a new brother bulbous face wishy washy Eskimow target lawn favor turn every other black colour seen and not understood violent questions purge through a vacuum straw and wait about a few million more hours to Ask.