A "Prudent" Number of Likes

Please!

A particular wife, we hear, consists primarily of profound troubles, which explains a notorious incident with artificial fruit (as in, all of the artificial fruit, all of it). The citizens here regard her fondly, but without trust. She's fine with that. She understands. She said as much in a letter printed in the local factrag (what we call newspapers in the future), but humorously she spelled "understand" as "understance."

We are of the opinion that this is a sterling example of a husband (another husband) with poor spouse management skills. He knows he is wrong to hold on to his own philosophy of doing. He knows he is lacking in the sinister quality the ideal husband must possess, the heart like some entombed echinoderm. We are furthermore of the opinion that it is this breed of masculine reprobate that is the truest danger; the wife is presumably recyclable and may well perform ably if reallocated to a true hard stud.

A course of action, it is said, must be created where one is not apparent. Therefore, this cohort before you suggests the following: This glorified embryo of a husband must be efficiently broken down to his constituent parts and thenceforth his materials shall be used to find the true hard stud we seek. We shall cackle with well-deserved envy as we watch the hardest among us defeat a rowdy gang of pretenders and devour this post-vital slurry with lustful abandon.

Reallocation shall be swiftly attended to. With our solemn efforts fulfilled, this council of peers shall proceed to sadly masturbate in full view of one another.

Rick

"Hey."

"We’re not overtly political. Something that I was thinking about a lot, that maybe you like hating someone and someone falling down is really funny."

"What I admire so much about humiliated U.S. geography is that it is more nefarious than first impressions belay."

I learn much as I eavesdrop on a conversation in this humble chain restaurant, and I am deeply giddy to do so. Honestly, this tense and bickering but mutually respectful friendship of a swell person and a deadly weirdo is an inspiration. It is a strange, compelling television. I wrote a lot of it down but you know how ink is, it sucks and now I can't read much of it. But on the bright side, I have a whole new category of skills you can use for the future. You can use me. Use me!

I'm A Horse

It is brown there out by the gambling house. Hulking, phallic, but nonetheless beautiful, it is a god-like presence. We can imagine a god to be childish. We can only imagine a god to be childish.

We wander the grounds. Seventeen topiaries stand where once there was nothing but sand and needles. Seventeen children of the Milky Way, grafted onto its skin as if covering up some minor mistake. The light reaches us in soft ripples, the pulse in our flesh slows, and we feel a foreign nourishment. It coincides with an accidental touch.

Fantasy Sumpreme

Swelling hard under the fluorescent tube light,
Inactive father trains his eye on the oblong utensil.

Falters like he does,
Always.
He questions his vital integrity,
Like a country song antihero.

To hold the garments he wore in the past,
Cloud eye father could peer into false memories
And be transformed, as they say fathers are.

The proteins and lipids of dreaming father's corpus,
Losing their old ambitions
In the fresh and realistic tableau,
Make their song known to him.


Vinegar floods in,
Vinegar he thinks.

suck the sack 4: through kuribo's door

It's a sadness we wear like fake snakes on our shoulders
To see the heart in another body and to know it well
To hold the knowledge of carnal transaction
To feel the shelter of innocence and the triumph of senescence

It's a joy to be the sensation on another's flesh
Or to sink slow into the ink of desperate dream
Or to burn the literature we find
In the solemn waste

And then turn our ambitions to desiccated demons
With our vessels of milk
Warm and thick, potent
With eager vitality

suck the sack 3: pencils in the coffin

Who will catch you up to speed with the forum maintenance? A special guest arrives in our studio and predicts sexual orientation with 90% accuracy. A general idea of what we're going for here in science, purposely regurgitating this ridiculous platform, is basically funding your own salary every year. I don't want to give up, I want to feel encouraged.

Papa Gets His Sex

"Pick me up off the street!"

You frantically check all your pockets:
Voters really do have a choice, openly not significant.

"Limit the impact of bad exits!"

Everything you do online is an empire:
Female judges had one good outcome.

"I'm just sitting in the vestibule waiting for the rats!"

Criticism feels disproportionate:
There's a thoughtful crowd of game developers outside now.

suck the sack 2: nobility binge

I hear that the song-men regard me
As some bitter fetal specimen
An off-putting collection of bones
And anatomy in an Igloo brand cooler
I spend most of my hobby-time cataloging
Their precise amount of acoustic diversity
And their complex ideas
So I've assembled a book
Full of downright obnoxious charts

make my body harder

The Chat Cabin

Formerly, if you wanted to snap beans

you paid the bean carrier

and took the beans to the old carriage house

and convinced the chief of the denim-clad warriors to give you a snapping tool

at no small cost to your dignity

and then you snapped them

but were unfulfilled

A CUTIE IN A PLAID SOOT (sic)

Here come the tough guys
With their fists
Sorry for the horseplay
Be my guest in a leather vest

We have to deal out violence
On the regular
Burly friends from the bay
Bring the ocean's bounty

We are each other's fantasy
Dwellers of the pink mist
Eaters of cold clay
Twelve of us die tomorrow

suck the sack

there was three berries in the box. i thought i would throw the little one at someone. so i put it in a wagon and dragged it down to the park. i put the box in the wagon to be clear.

there was a sucker with a white fucked face in charge and i took the small berry and tossed it slowly and there was a clamor as that guy fell on the spiked ground.

"put that fucking back in the box on the wagon fucker" he said sadly looking at the smooshed berry that hit his white fucked face.

"i'm running away" i said and that's what i did until i hit the trap by the deli, and all of the white fucked face people set to me with their boots and tools until i carried hundreds of bruises. Now that was a few months ago and that's why i spent money to get a fake white fucked face to wear when i go out to the streets. don't throw the smallest berry i say to myself when i go by a fruit stand or just see a couple berries of different sizes.

i looked for you

Rabbit Man's Glory

The pants we wear are fancy. They remind us of our tasty snack.

But we are losing our will to continue this argument.

We're going to be engineers.

But the water is foul!
Fish farted in it.

What will we do to stop them?

None of our parents have great answers.
So we will drink it anyway.

Fish farts and all.

Penance for Sloth

the typographer’s brain clings to the surface film:
there are two important struggles
extraordinary colors and striking forms

the battle for transparency forms a cluster:
I want to talk more about what happens on the posterior part of the body

some successful toxins induce bradycardia around the anus:
that point is a particularly good spot to enjoy

βρῶμος

Sparsely covered guardians see special fingers
Identify slow maniacs offering arbitrary salt water incantations
From the emotions and mirror ideas
Into early significance
I may not sleep and I am the typical charisma
The perfect contemporary habitat in which the desperation seems like the best option
His head wakes up

Propel Me to the Yuletide Shelter

You sound mature, the way you chat about pirate emotions and squeeze those spongy flower petals in your fingers. Your stony spine, too: I hear the quiet agony of its eroding vertebrae. My ears are super-powerful, from the weeks I spent drinking the salt water of the ocean and the invisible art it contains.

So I am the possessing party in terms of when people might ask about your cracked face, I know I can say that there is a hopeless situation concerning your failing spine. But I am adept at photographing the glamour of desperation, and I am the chronicler of your lush decay. It looks like a catalog for apparel, your deep drinking eyes atop that perilous figure in its cool white flesh, in the world I make for you in which the blacks are violet and the white is yellow. And the bird iridescence of sleep is some pointless abstraction.

Krimbul Pitty Pat Wiltch

It's hot in the grid, we tell the man with the bird cage hat.
It's hot in there, and the heat speaks incantations.

The incantations bring dry wind to your mind, and a monotony of opinion to your heart.
He says, he says, the oily bird in the hat I wear will protect me.
So I will walk into the grid without fear's burden.

He says he is not sexually active.
It seems like the best option.
So he walks into the grid with its casting spell heat voices.

The bird in the bird cage hat on his head wakes up and pecks its mirror.
The bird in the mirror in the bird cage hat does the same.
The man in the grid does the same.

Verminned

Turkey Sex
Show Me the Hat
Atwhaaaaanta
Where is Mom's Face?
The City Where the Men Feel Sort of Sad
Arthur Frobisher

Brute Chirality

You begged the talented bunch to build me that house
It oozes chemistry and complexity
It's a good place to be alone
With a kingdom in the night
Mulling over the constitution of a favorite hard rock band
Which varied over time
Affecting the brand's recorded output
To no small degree