Okay, I is responsible for all dis, my e-mailability being at elgaroo@13th-floor.org, where not the slightest opinion, communication, insight, or randombabble is not gladly implored of thee. I recommend starting in the middle, where I, in my opinion, really start taking off, but feel free to browse as you will. your order is the order. here, also, is the rest of the site whose horrific outdatedness and untidy lack of upkeep i must beg profusely you forgive and ignore of me, as I have no real net access to call my own. other than that, all i can think of is love, peace, and groove be with you, my brother. i hope i had some manner of positive impact on your life, whatever personal form it might take. Hail Eris!

"What Happened?"
I feel so strange, dizzy. It's unlike anything I've ever experienced before. Everything seems different. I'm thirsty. I don't know why but I feel as though I haven't had a drink for days. My head is pounding. I can barely stand up, much less walk strait. The water seems so far away. Still I must try, my thirst is overwhelming. I'm practically crawling on my belly. Standing up is just too much effort. It makes my head swim. Finally I make it.

I see you beauty
And am held fast
Able only to stare
Until at last
I open my mouth
And as through the past
All I can say is --

And when you are near
That I might feel your touch
I move nearer still
And my emotions are such
That I turn my head
And, though I wish to say much
All I can say is --

And then at last
I'm alone with you
And the feelings I have
That I wish that you knew
Finally come out
In a voice that is true
All I can say is --
That I love you

There you are.
Broken now,
Unable
To move,
To defend.
Terrified,
You are.
I feel
Your pain.
To much
For me
To bare,
I must help you,
Reach out
And touch you,
Bring you in
To safety.

But I am
Powerless.
I am
Powerless
Before them.
We all are
Powerless.
All are
Powerless
Before them.

So now,
What am I
To do?
What can I
Do for you?
I know
You are
A wonderful thing.
I know
You do not
Deserve this.
How can I
Leave you now?
I do
Know what
You're going through.
I would try,
If I could,
To help you,
Feel you,
Touch you,
Bring you
In.

But I am
Powerless.
I am
Powerless
Before them.
We all are
Powerless.
All are
Powerless
Before him.

Now it is
Too late.
Shall I
Never
Know your fate?
Did you survive?
Are you alive?
Have I
Passed you by?
Missed you?
Whatever
It may be,
Goodbye
To thee,
And
Fare thee well.

Today the feeling is a strange one. A Jell-O feeling. Pudding actually. I feel the warm, mellow contentment of being suspended in a sea of warm pudding. It's not like eating type pudding. It's just a semi-fluid substance. And I don't need to breathe. Just sitting there, feeling good. I need not even think much. But I know of the creeping doom. Unable to be seen or felt in this sea of pudding, I still know that a black, empty, creeping doom is approaching. But I will do nothing. In this warm, wonderful feeling, I don't want to bother with doom or fate or destiny. I just want to lie here in my pudding, and not worry about the creeping doom which will soon consume me whole.

As the warm blue and white
Turns to cool green and black,
I find myself mellowed,
And my actions muted.

The cheers and yells behind
Fade to a nice low hum,
And those I know and love
Fall far behind, below.

My ignorance startles me
From within a plant,
And I am wary,
For this is where I belong,

And as I become one
With this, my beginning,
The worries of my life
Fall far behind, below.

I see this flower,
And see it's beauty,
And long to be near.
To see it, and to
Smell it's sweet fragrance.
To talk to it, and
To be with it, and
To know it's okay.

But the other, he is
Smarter, and he is
The one who takes her
Away, and with him and
She will stay, for he
Is the one who knows...

It had been a day like every other innumerable, monotonous day that had plagued his life and smothered his happiness by being a school day. He had pulled himself out of bed, jumped in and out of the shower, thrown on some clothes, and walked to school, arriving just before the final bell. After a quick "hello" to his friends in the smart class, he ran to Sr. Evarts Spanish class. Another uneventful and uninteresting hour and a half of "hablo" this, and "a donde" that. Then finally he stood in respect for his country, however declining to pledge his allegiance to an old piece of cloth. Unimportant scholastic and athletic announcements in no way having anything to do with him, a shrill beep, and he was flung into the tumultuous, rushing rivers of the hallways. The unusual smell of natural gas and the even greater than usual turbulence warned him that today's daily trip to Mrs. Beul's biology class may turn out to be more eventful then usual. Then all of the sudden, a huge explosion ripped open the science wing. "Run!" a desperate student screamed. "The killer fetal space pigs will have their revenge on Oakland Mills High School!"

The very first thing I can remember in my short life is a flickering, pale blue light accompanied by sharp, scratchy noises and muffled voices. At times, late at night while dozing off in front of the TV, I awaken suddenly, overcome by an intense and inexplicable feeling that I have forgotten something vitally important. I spend hours wracking my brain, trying desperately to remember what it is I have forgotten, always to no avail. I finally succumb to fatigue and drift off to sleep with a sickening feeling that my life will never truly be complete until I recall this unknown memory. Not even drinking protects me entirely from this eternal sensation of loss. I can Envision myself decades in the future having been driven completely mad by this constant, ceaseless emptiness within my mind. The only other memory I have of early life is a small, blinking red light. Even now, traffic lights and police cars can set off a sudden pang of fear and panic. My shrink called it "stimuloid paranoia". He kept pushing me to try "regressive hypnotic recall", but I always refused. Maybe I was more afraid of the truth of my origins than of these disturbing absences in my memories.

The man and the beast were one flesh as they flew over the undulating grasslands. They moved together in perfect synchronisity, not touching the ground, halfway to the sky. Their path conformed fluidly to the quickly changing contours of their runway. As the sun grew large and red in it's slow decent into the undiscovered country ahead, the sky exploded with a brilliant show of colors. Finally the dark violet melted into the crystal blackness of the night sky. A huge full moon had already risen above the looming snowcapped mountains ahead. The stars twinkled brilliantly; tiny diamonds carelessly sprinkled across the inky emptiness. The familiar hunter of the heavens watched stoically as the pair continued to speed relentlessly along a path known only to themselves, completely oblivious to the icy chill of the night air, or the long day of fatigue felt in their pounding muscles. They were on a quest unknown to the rest of the sleeping world, yet critically important to all it's inhabitants. A great force was threatening all life on this fragile Earth, and the only chance to stop it was this young unproven nomad, and the mythical Unicorn of Legend.

Just sit right back
And you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a fateful trip
That started back in Salem, Mass.
Aboard this funky ship.
Aboard this funky ship.

Now Hester had
Her big red "A",
And Dimmesdale was a priest.
Pearl was a devil-spawn,
And Chillingworth a pimp.
And Chillingworth a pimp.

They ran away
From puritans;
They didn't like them much.
They went back to old Eng-el-land
For a three hour tour.
A three hour tour.

They're gonna make
A movie now.
It's probably gonna suck.
Make sure that it's got lots of sex,
And they'll make lots of bucks.
They'll make lots of bucks.

With Chillingworth,
And Dimmesdale too,
Pearl the freak,
Hester the slut,
Demi Moore,
And Satan and Mary Ann,
Here on Hester Prynn's Isle.
Here on Hester Prynn's Isle!

The Fuzzy Bunny Song

Mash him into jelly,
Blow him to the moon,
Devour him completely,
Fuzzy Bunny will die soon!

Grape Nuts in our breakfasts
Grape Nuts in our bowls
Grape Nuts in a baggie
Grape Nuts are the enemy in the Third World War.

A duck
And bunny
To pluck
Is funny

To pluck
A duck
And bunny
Is funny

rain on my roof

like urine in a latrine

always gets me wet

on the desert sands

the plants and animals

live in secrecy

The Fuzzy Bunny Haiku

little bits of flesh

scattered about the bombsight

are Fuzzy Bunny

1: "So, why can't we just highlight the bees we like the best?"
2: "Well, that's obvious you blind fool! If we did that the mice would become jealous and overthrow the government."
1: "What's wrong with that? It's not as if anyone would miss it, except maybe the terminally blue humbug hermit of the forest."
2: "Why would the hermit care? He hasn't even thrown cheese at the town hall for several decades."
1: "I know. It's just that he's into that useless genre of archaic crap. I've even seen him driving an automobile. A Volkswagen Beetle no less!"
2: "I've heard that he raises Chia Pets and trims them with a Flobie."
1: "Bizarre!"
2: "And that's not the worst of it. I hear he actually listens to Oingo Boingo and Kenny G!"
1: "Yeah, my granddad used to listen to Michael Jackson a lot. That was before his lobotomy."
2: "It's a good thing he got that too. My granddad never got rid of his excess gray matter and ended up a starving unappreciated writer like Elgaroo."
1: "Gee, that's too bad."
2: "I read something by Elgaroo once, but it didn't make any sense. He just kept rambling and raving on and on about a bunch of stupid bunnies or something without any regard to telling an actual coherent story about anything."
1: "I've hear about Elgaroo's bunnies. Weren't they responsible for the downfall of the United Nations?"
2: "Yeah! They just couldn't operate on any level once those damned stories were translated. And then there was that Pumplin kid and his craziness shop or whatever the hell that stupid thing was called."
1: "Yeah, I kind of liked Australia too."

The child grew and grew, slowly grasping his life. His sweet thoughts made the world pleasant and light. When he learned to grow fruit and cook he made wonderfully sweet cakes for everyone. This made everyone very happy.

And he'd sing. My God, he had the most beautiful voice, like tinkling icicles on frosty Christmas. Even the unicorn would come to see him when he sang. He would give the unicorn sweet fruits and pet his nose and scratch his itches. But he always liked the cat the best. The two were inseparable.

One day they went together to the mirror pool. It was crystal clear and cool and the boy swam while the cat sprawled comfortably on the warm rocks, purring and sporadically licking his fur.

Deep within the labyrinthine bowls of the ancient decaying satellite, a child stirs. Finding itself alone and hungry it cries out, it's pitiful howls echoing vainly through the hard, unsympathetic metallic rooms and passageways.

She breathes more than the air.
She sees more than what's clear.
She knows more than they care.
She loves one who's not there.

She is the one,
Part of the two,
Sent by the three,
The one for me.

She hears more than the noise.
She feels more than they know.
She wants more than they have.
But they don't see her grow.

She is the one,
Part of the two,
Sent by the three,
The one for me.

She thinks more than they dare.
She speaks more than they hear.
She's much more than they fear.
She loves one who's not there.

She is the one,
Part of the two,
Sent by the three,
The one for me.

The one for me.

Do you think I am mad simply because I speak the truth? Oh, but maybe you're right, in that to expose myself fully to reality without the barriers of societies assumptions and explanations, I truly am mad. For life itself is madness, and only a madman would dare to face life as it truly is.

The moon jiggled nervously on the deceptively calm ink of the lake. She knew she was not the true moon, solid and still in the sky, standing with respect and strength. In stead she was a cheap imitation conjured up by the spirit of the lake, foolishly out of place in it's sill waters.

So much pain and misery,
Sorrows fill the air.
Still you are defiant.
Continue if you dare.

Know why you have come to this place.
Know why you must face this disgrace.
See what others choose to ignore.
Feel `til you can't feel any more.

Go beyond the boundaries.
Seek among the freaks.
Walk along the shores of life,
And don't come back
Until you have found peace.

Falling down, slipping, tripping, I think.
No longer illuminated, I sink.
Blackness engulfing, light small and far,
Do I regret this, my sun now a star?

But now around me such wonders I see!
These visions, and people; Who dreamed they could be?
For, blinded by brightness, and glory, and light,
One can not perceive the beauty of night.

And now that I've taken that first, final plunge
I am free of such refuse, and offal, and scum.
And now purified by the frigid dark empty,
I see all of life as it is, and it could be.

Gunshots. Then silence. War drums begin to savagely beat out their declaration of panic. Through the thick smoke, the sunrise can still be seen, blood red. The haze of this new-come half-light bathes the scene in crimson. Now the true impact of last night's horrors are shown to eclipse even the darkest of imagined specters of destruction. The lesser chattel already clog the arteries of this glorious techno-city. Once thinking themselves invincible angels in a heaven surpassing all human perfection, one night has brought them down to the base earth in a disgusting, feeble, filthy attempt at escape from their once holy utopia.

I've disowned humanity.
I've thrown it away.
No need to argue,
No need to stay.

I've disowned humanity.
I'm not coming back.
Left them forever
And laid my own track.

I've disowned humanity.
I am not of them.
A cosmic mistake
What my life has been.

I've disowned humanity.
No people of mine.
Always so foolish,
And always unkind.

I've disowned humanity
Because they can't see
What this means to them,
What that means to me.

I've disowned humanity
But can't think clearly.
Did I disown them,
Or they disown me?

I'm awake, but no one else is.
I'm too early, it's too late.
Kind of spooky. All is empty.
Nary a sound; none too bright.

Feel misplaced and wonder aimless.
Nothing seems to feel the same.
Colors dull and motives duller,
Take a nap on Yellow Line.

No one seems to be around now.
Was there never anyone,
And I've always been alone here?
Or did I just make all that up?

It opens
It's opened
It opens
It's gone

It's coming
It sees you
You see it
It's wrong

Forever
Beyond you
Forever
Unseen

It comes and
You run and
It has you
The same

You smell like our swim milk did after he hit it.

The sordid white summer apparatus manipulates gorgeous blue rock trips.

A thousand essential meat language visions as juicy as warm bushcake,
through whisper smiles about as enormous as wild breath at play.

Baby,
Hand my desire.
Sister,
Speak my heart.

Never bitter chant of candy free,
But black lie fool a storm at sea.

A prisoner under fast, frantic fluff may question his son.

Water like tree could not ask but one cup of almost honey fiddle,
with friends beneath power who think none a worry to listen,
perhaps only to wake their dark timely music.

Triptine College,
Triptamine.
Lemon Custard
Cookies Scream.

Overzealous,
Overcharge,
Boston Scowl
Garbage Barge.

Lick-Up Sugar,
Coffee Slop,
Make Up Beggar
Mirror Shop.

Christmas Carpool
Open Wide,
Got a Little
Pride to Hide.

Open Dreamer,
Come to Me,
Let Me Show You
Tragedy.

Swelter Summer
Peaceful Heat,
Uniform Blue
Freaks to Beat.

Tasty Tidbits,
Succulent
Fatty Tissues,
Gender Bent.

Scathing Sidebar,
Metal Red.
Blackened Beating,
Cold Hard Head.

Slip and Lick Me,
Spread Your Wings.
Dream With Me Of
Better Things.

Soft and Purring
Small and Sweet,
Please Excuse The
Smell of Feet.

Fallen Demon,
Risen Saint,
Simple Peasant,
Food to Taint.

Exorcise Me
From Your Soul,
I'll Go Onward
In the Cold.

Chicken Marsala,
Broken Drunk.
Open Containment,
Slicked Up Funk.

And Over the Bean Tree
And Under the Sea
Begone the Sly Empty,
No More the PG.

Over and Under,
Too Near and Too Far,
Again and Again
I Will Visit that Star.

I sit in my room
And I read them
I read them
The letters
you wrote me.

I lie in my room
And I listen
I listen
To the songs
you sent me.

I sit in my room
And I think now
I think now
Of how I
hurt you so.

I cry in my room
And remember
Remember
That you used
to love me.

I sit in my room
And I wonder
I wonder
If I should
hack away,

Because in my room
I know it will
Know it will
Never be
as it was.

So I sit in my room
Feeling Nothing
Feeling Nothing
But that you
were my only chance.

Solution set,
Nicker net,
Bitter Cornish
Hen fowl fret

Slow reduction,
Heat construction.
Have you seen
My llama?

Can you breathe?
Can you sneeze?
Can you tell
What's up my sleeve?

Wanderlust
And wandersex,
Do you know
What's coming next?

Triple trouble
Power core,
It's your mother!
It's your whore!

Now we come
To the Grand Prize!
Has it nipples?
Has it eyes?

All of these
And more it flaunts,
And with bobbing
Lights it taunts,

Full of jabbers
And gahorts,
Frumpish scents
And beastly snorts,

It's that cheery
Son of mine,
Born of tangled
Hairy vines,

Sparkling apple
Cider cans,
Creamy maggot filled
Glazed hams,

Stuffed inside
A deep, dark hole
By a mad
Phil-os-opher's
Pet vole,

And festered for
Five hundred years,
And now assaults
Your inner ears.

THE WORLD BOBS AND WEAVES AND MOVES,
INSANITY ENCROACHING FROM EVERY ANGLE
I TWIST AND TURN AND TUMBLE QUICKLY,
SEEING THE BLINDING STROBE OF THE CLICKING,
TASTING THE SMOOTH, CREAMY BASS,
FEELING THE PRICKLING STATIC CACOPHONY
AS IT RISES AND SOARS AND PLUMMETS
WITH EXPONENTIAL ACCELERATION,
THE ROCKS SPINNING MADLY AS THEY RUSH UPWARD,
I CLOSE MY EYES,
I CLENCH MY TEETH,
And instead of a Bang, or a Crunch, or a Splat,
there is only a perfect silence,
a sudden serenity,
a bodiless floating.
somewhere above my mind
a stream is gurgling,
i hear bird calls to my left,
i feel the stars and the void inside me,
the trees scraping the sky,
the insects crawling in the dirt,
all the joy and the sadness
of people the world over,
how happy they could be,
if only they could see
how much, and how little, everything matters.

It's only moments after you left, and the darkness has already returned. It grabs me savagely, angry and driven by it's hunger from having been kept at bay by your voice and your smile and your laugh. Your kind words are poison to it's life fed by dispair, your happiness a beacon, cutting through the fog. But now, without you, the flame sputters out, leaving me with only dull ember-tipped sticks to protect myself with, memories of your light, that I use to chop through the darkness. These keep it away at first, until it's coldness reduces them to naught but ashes, and it strikes, and I am defenseless against it's onslaught.

So I must protect these embers, keep them alive and feed them until they grow into a flame of my own, my own little memory you that lives in my heart:

Pooh, coffee, smiles, Caddilacs,
Turtles and mac and cheese,
Hair and sweatshirts,
Long rides home,
And late night Cheers...

As long as I can keep my little flame alive until yours returns I'll be safe, like the hunter who steals a little bit of the sun to light his camp until the real one returns to dispel all of the demons back to their stinking pits and holes.

The wet, milky monkeys like to eat shiny rubber koanfusion luke pumps, you silky, bun-hopping city boy... Wooo doggy! We like to slurp from the buttercups of delight, you soggy dough mongers, eat spit and fry, and your mothers eat trousers. You need a ginger nookie-cookie like a cow pie needs prodding. Broken shaggy poop cellars, and the old man replied in a bright northern Flemish, ***FART*** !!! "Ah...sex is good..." Have you seen my boot sock, sir? Spongy like lamprey, you ribbed for Allah's pleasure pedestrian, moss ridden breast dimple. And the wind cried...Maury... Hey, what's up with her gothic pubic hair? HER CROTCH DOES NOT EXIST!!! Your amazing little pill worked like magic, my headache is completely gone.

Lie. It is true that I lie. I lie to you, I lie to me, I lie to the world. And I lie with you, and I lie with me, and I lie with the world. I'm just one great lying whore, entertaining you, me, and everyone else with this amazing, extravagant show the foolish robots call life, and believe to be real. Just as real as my lies, or your dreams, or your thoughts, or red October Tuesdays lit with the embers of my soul for all the world to inhale deeper and deeper until it explodes and it excretes, and it flies apart in every direction, the earth become a huge potter's wheel spinning faster and further out of control, and you're just a little droplet again, this imaginary individual, with a life all it's own, not intricately connected with all of the other droplets. You fly through the cold, empty night skies, tiny stars set far out in the pure darkness, separated by a vacuum, whizzing by each other in a bizarre, complex dance, with all of it's confusing laws and regulations, until the dance finally comes to an end, and the cacophonous chorus swells once again, and the climactic explosion destroys everything. Everything. But this destruction is at the same time a creation, and begins the next dance, set to a brand new tune, and all to the beat of one, universal heart.

Romeo's chariot,
Far beyond funky,
Tell Tar and Pa likewise:
True friends share soap
And open toadstools
To their master's decree
Just enough to repair
The Ethereal Rift
In the Space-Time Continuum
Just like the captain
(The captain of vomit)
And red master switches
That allow for new witches
And old school bed fellows
Ripped of by FM
Converted to semen
And lost in the nefelem,
The biscuits returning
And all old doggs yearning
For a time you can find
Etched into vinyl
By the concrete castles
With new, improved lifestyles
For all you new homeboys
Reliving your first time
And your first time reliving
What you never lived.
Sci-Fi electrodes,
Comics with big nose,
I tell you it's erratic,
What I got in tha attic
And why it was put there
And why you will now hear
My cosmic manipulatory powers
And the real WHY?
Of Lucy in the sky
And show an amazing reaction
For it is the true
Dissolver of glue
Among our brain's multiple atoms
And how it associates
With all it manipulates.

Everclear view
Will come unto you
If you follow
The rules of
The bong hit.
Come share my views,
Find the new latitudes
Of mutants
And car parts
FOREVER!
And next will be for'ners,
And then Genghis Kahn
To the true I/O heaven
Of equally pleasing and enlightening new levels of reality sampling through sense manipulations to allow total environmental processing and manipulating at a level allowing for a mental (conscious) and spiritual (sub-conscious) communication, allowing for the direct application of reasoning algorithms on the spiritual aspects of reality, and spiritual, non-physically limited data processing power on...letters from Walter Kronkite?...that's pretty important!...hmmm...

Distortion damaging
As much as dumpsters
When all our mothers
Gab up their drothers
With lemon drop whistles
Having a true sensation
Of floating in elipticals
And eating black holes
So keep off the habits
And clear off ya' table
And keep ya'self able
When posed with a trouble
Ta boost up yer fences
And change all your senses

True to custard
Screaming free
Trying to
Come over me
This is where I
Want to be
Living with
The other me

Come on to the sidewalk
Feel in to the crevasse
Come on to the sidewalk
Feel in to the crevasse

Find a way
To feel the ray
That one day may
Release the gray
And show you what's
Behind the vale
And show you why
They live this hell
And show you how
To run away
And feel always
As you did that day

Come on to the sidewalk
Feel in to the crevasse
Come on to the sidewalk
Feel in to the crevasse

Too tired to trip,
Too knackered to flip,
Too `pressed to even
Notice I'm sick,

Giant orange meatcakes,
Little green heatskates,
Overdrive pumpkins
In late summer haze,

True to the models,
In real silk and nylon,
Hating the stereo.
Over and over:

I tried,
I'm sorry,
I tried,
I'm sorry,
I'm sorry,
I'm sorry,
I tried,
I'm sorry.

Improvised impoverishment,
T'was me sir, the eggplant.
True withfore the dogma,
Slip, sly water fixtures
With several new advantages
Over all competing brands.

Here's to the memory of ideas gone and lost, a toast, if you will, to an absence. I've dreamed a wake for the ultra-infinite, little seeds who were never planted, never even given a chance to grow, each one an infant universe, a little BIG BANG all my own, that i try (Oh i try!) to share with you all. And just like you i know at this moment that I am the mother CREATION ITSELF, my mind a semi-automatic thought birthing machine, translator to my soul, and every one, every child i don't record, don't remember, is lost, is LOST.

FOREVER.

I'll never have it again, and no one else could ever have had it instead, could ever even begin to imagine the world i lost
to carelessness,
to laziness,
to inconvenience,
and all i'm left with
is a slight residual memory,
a vague sensation
that i just lost the key to an incredibly beautiful garden, just around the corner from this one. But one must know when to bid the departed farewell, and to move on with your life, and get crackin' on the next one, because, after all, they're all the same, they're all just different parts of the same thing. They're just like people, when you think about it. They're all you, and you are all of them.

Respective vomit,
Perspective grommet,
Intensive intestinal probing.

Elective spamming,
Creative panning,
Solutional amino replanning.

Selective redigit,
Massive endemic,
Severe digestive reflux.

Trauma serving lycos, with several inherent advantages over velcro, and guaranteed to react in the most anti-rational manner possible. All these and more can be yours for just one human eyeball.

Basic events, true to elastic bean biscuits, and inherent to mescaline biscuits toasted a nice golden brown and piping hot, with Andrew Hoffman in an open wound with elephantiasis of the nipple, and regularly checking to see if his elemental chipmunk has born fruit in captivity, which officials have always considered "off limits" to mortals, but then, we all know how mortals get when they're told what they can't do.

And so the moods
Will come soon and see
What your pea-brain has done
And we all will agree
That these bulbous bodies
On top of our necks
Are of quite little usefulness
And tend to neglect
The finer aspects
Of life and all else
Whilst concerning themselves
With constantly feeding
Their undying greed,
Their infinite guts.
They will never get full
Even if they consume
Their entire world
With their fire and brimstone
Of atomic proportions
And their and violence and hatred
Of themselves and themselves

True, true, true,
With lemon hue
Unites what had been spoken.

Rational takes
The darker lakes
And sets them free
On latter seas
Sailed not by the likes
Of you and me.
Sent with custard,
Crab cake short
And left for Nancy,
I like her skirt.

The same as dream,
The same as seam,
And just the same
As king or queen,
Allowing forever
The solid beam,
A firm belief
Of red and green,
And opulent puppies
Thrown in a stream,
And garters
And gutters
And gaiters supreme,
Always careful,
And always clean,
And, when necessary,
Always serene.
You laugh,
I know,
And scoff
My show,
But where is yours?
Words naught but snow.
Ancient sleazy bean bags,
Awesome lazy sleaze bags,
Recent kidney jetlag,
Vital kitchen transplants,
Troubled human catfish counterpart open freezing positive cracked peeling absolute Creole abnormal Cretan petulant opera conjunction Palo trouble caution paintcan special frequency pen pal open with contaminating fruit juiciness man what's up with that?

Creating capers of abnormal size is a skill requiring hours of dedicated study and practice. You must understand the distinctive qualities of each Craftmaster adjustable bed, but only as advised by your physician, be him a stubby dwarf, or the real one, but we do not insure rotting cod carcasses for elective, spontaneous fire spawning, as this practice is looked down upon by my grandmother, and even though she's been dead for eleven years, we still keep her embalmed corpse around, though we did have to get rid of the cats because of this (they just wouldn't stop scratching on the old bag...whoops! Now look what I've done! Psycho-spiritual turbulence, etheric chaos, nano- specific lepton flavoring, and yes, we carry a wider assortment of quark flavors than the laws of your universe allow, so if you don't mind a little para-legal smuggling, you too can become a bloated purple cat looming over Tokyo like a gardener over my turnips!) Yes siree, I sure do like your sister. She makes me trippy with her flowers, and trousers, and unmistakable fragrance not unlike a modern 747 giving birth to several trillion flaming Tickle-Me Elmo's over Central Park, or the ensuing panic as everyone's dogs quickly germinated, and led us to believe that the final message is not mere randomness, but is in fact divine chaos, the stuff that stuff is made of: A trillion balloons seeking animal fat for stuffing their personal mailmen simulation software into a universally compatible form known as nougat.

PS - Don't worry, this happens all the time. You get used to it.

In TROUBLE, True
In THEORY, You
In PRACTICE, Few
I'm TALKING About...free floating octopi with rainbow coloured raincoats, but they still need the leaking wet bubbles so often associated with the later half of the deconstruction movement, you know, when they wore those silly hats that remind me of KIWIS running through tall grass, and lions in the gentle desert breeze, so hot, so gone, so inedible to the standard version of the mushead monkey model, but that's okay, because all I need to keep us dry is one of those little cocktail umbrellas.

*: Forsooth! My lion tamer changes frequency at random intervals, and this disturbs me.
-: Tragic feet, my slippery one. Allow me to calm you with Middle Eastern whispers.
*: Ah, the cool breeze of Carbon delights me. You are truly one in ten.
-: Yes, yes, slip with me into a cold fever of ritualistic ironing and forget your silly toadstools, for they are naught but silly bubbles, you grape juice humidifier.
*: But wait, I'm not quite sure that my trousers are ripe with the rubber chickens of renewed Sports Illustrated subscriptions, and I think you just ran over Lassie, the poor soap bubble of my pancreas. Maybe we should settle this in Australia, where my head will be rooted in the seas of antiquity, and we will be allowed unfathomable Cheeze-Wiz.
-: My unsavory pestilence astounds me with it's grommet-like ordeals of Dr. Scholl's simian Castor Oil. Seweee, that's the dickens! Let's boil ourselves before we can realize the folly of our actions.
*: Simple reptile pusher, these are my friends! You can't just skin them like tulips and settle their domestic disputes with a few fell swoops of your child like lower appendages, unless you want the rock stars called on our feeble little ant farm of turnip vending Cadillac emblem collectors.
-: Well, well, well, wasn't that just the pleasant one, are we? I'm beginning to doubt your conviction in the matter. Let's take potato peelers to the concert and set them loose on the intermediary lap dog top spinners as they open their most delectable mollusks in the presence of kings and their feces alike.
*: Senile fishes swim in feces, and so should I, but why not compromise our structural integrity with soap and influence makeshift mothbutter experiences while simultaneously filling our notebooks with cream cheese on the matter of table tennis rings rented to satanic, blind midgets on full moons.
-: Alas, all of this turbulent mustard cutting and aspirin slurping has resulted in the fanciest of crayon candle making homeless Tibetans, sans capital glue hunts. I'm afraid I might slam a few hedgehogs, seeing as I'm silvered and devoid of pants. Let me out of this crazy cricket house!
*: Cranberry lacquer, not my eggnog you fiend! You've ruined Christmas, and you did it on purpose! I'll see you on the marshlands, you Scottish freak! Let slip my melancholy, sport fishing sheep dog on your latter knee socks and roasted bootstrap slicking Labradors, you scathing commentary on O.J. Simpson hysteria! You're not an eggplant I could replicate with sad faith and devotion.
-: But let me see, I need more budgerigars, as my position calls for immediate, induced vomiting as opposed to what my Rite Aid lackeys seam to agree is beyond poppy-dermal contradictions, now with half the dog-like apparati of other leading brands, you slavoring devotee to gingerbread!
*: Ooops, I've spilled it all over you, and now you must say it all over again, but this time in stereo, with Dolby Surround Sound, but with higher pitch to donate a distressed penguin living in Antarctic darkness without television, or peanuts, or a working knowledge of thatched huts, unless you count disturbingly large jellyfish, and I know you do so don't even try to deny it. Have you seen my caffeine?
-: Your moose and his contemporaries have enlightened me far beyond your mother's belief system, and I like it frothy, so give me the pistachios, and disregard my true intent, I just want to be a jumping bean, and your lizards are moist with anticipation, but I'll let you go now.
*/-: Seven for three,
Three for ten,
Target your quantity,
Release the hen,
Select your princess,
And lead the cheese,
Nine out of ten
Blind monkeys agrees.
-: Don't you contradict my ramen, you stocking stuffer! I've seen your glazed ham, and it is good. My navel has spoken.
*: You ornamental candle! You original member of the New Yardbirds! You person in a place where there are no people at all! I challenge you to reveal your ultimate sandwich making capabilities in all their glory.
-: Bread is good for Cheesy Poofs, but I prefer golden Franklin Bars. Slim pizza, Frank!
*: Sounds delicious, let us art.
-: Sound.

[Gramma]: "Slimy like biscuits."
[Maggot Girl]: Oh no, not again...
[Gramma]: "`S'what he always telled me, most `portant thing he ever knowed was 'Slimy like biscuits,' so you slurp'em up!"
[Maggot Girl]: "Gramma, you're crazy! No one believes that silly story. Why would he say such a stupid thing? People just made that up."
[Gramma]: "Don't you give me that lip, Maggot Girl! I knowed him. We had understanding, when he'd take me nowhere with his paper wings..."
[Maggot Girl]: "You never knew him, everyone knows that. You're just a senile, delusional, fanatical fan of some long dead rock star. Sure, he was good, but now he's dirt. You're even waiting for him to come back."
[Gramma]: "He said he'd be right back, and he will. He just got distracted by something along the way, but he'll be back soon enough, you'll see. He told me he would."
[Maggot Girl]: "Gramma, he was just an artist, they were just songs, he was just making money."
[Gramma]: "I hear not the words of Pepsi. I knew him. He talked to me. He is my prophet, and I will never think otherwise."
[Maggot Girl]: "Whatever Gramma, I'm still not touching those fucking biscuits."
[Gramma]: "Fair `nuff. More for me anyway. Have fun in hell you fucking heathen."
[Maggot Girl]: "Oh Gramma, I love you too."

[Margo]: "Where were you last night?"
[Rolo]: "Flying, on the teeth of the wind."
[Margo]: "Yeah, I know. I was there. But where were you?"
[Rolo]: "With the transcendental trains, of course."
[Margo]: "Don't fuck with me Rolo, lest I taste your creamy filling."
[Rolo]: "I was nowhere, jeeze, what's up with you?"
[Margo]: "And after that you went to the smackhouse, right?"
[Rolo]: "Of course. Did you want me to walk all the way back here without recuperating?"
[Margo]: "You know I hate that place, and those people, and the things you did and do there. You were not to return."
[Rolo]: "It's not like any of them were there. They're all dead and/or gone, you know that."
[Margo]: "That house seeps resin, I can tell. You're practically gushing!"
[Rolo]: "It was raining, so I stopped in on the circular mattress, and there were weeds growing there, high, all around it. You should know me well enough to tell the difference."
[Margo]: "But...after that train ride...I thought you might do something stupid."
[Rolo]: "You should know better than that."
[Margo]: "I do, and I should, but I can't. I don't care, I worry about you."
[Rolo]: "I'll stay here with you then."

I awoke to this life next to a body. It was warm and soft and smooth and sweet, but I knew it wasn't mine. It wasn't long before I was told to leave, so I looked around, but couldn't find a trace of blood, so I left. It was a very early, cold winter morning outside, and still crystal dark, and still. My location had yet to form completely, so I merely followed my feet until I found it. What else is one to do? I met my Siamese twins of relief and dismay on a street corner which told me I was not as far from my familiar little bubble as I knew quite well I could have been, considering the territory I had covered the night before I was aware of this existence, so full it was of the shifting winds, as only limbo can be. As spacious as the void had been, I was lucky to even recognize the laws of nature, much less the planet or even nation to which this landscape I had never seen before in this lifetime belonged. Still, the needles of ice were already penetrating my skin, converging on my beating blood vessel, and I appeared to be traveling light, and the distance, though happily not astronomical, still was not at all enticing or pleasant to even consider. But then again, what else could I do, seeing as I was the only living thing on this earth. Not even a full year ago this would have been accepted, even expected, happily. Heck, I walked all the way to The City once back then with my little Buddha past steel dragons in search of my lost pumpkin. But that was another bubble. Same place, but at the same time, some place completely different. Another bubble, another life, another me, another world. A quick reality check in this latest one showed my forehead to be glowing bright white, and steaming, and the needles of cold are new, and sharp, and long, and would penetrate deep, deep, deep. Gone are the days of open doors and welcoming legs, now just a distant memory, a dream, a story in my head, glowing white, that had held my interest fast for days, that I now could hardly imagine wasting my time pondering, being someone completely different. If only I had my body; my real one. It would open to me and welcome me fully, warmly, without reservation or judgment, not like those other doors I left behind long ago. It's is a warmth that burns through from that star hidden deep, deep inside it by that anonymous hand I know so well as well, though I've never so much as seen it, that strong, old hand, that caring hand. All I need to do is find it, and it will guide me, point me to my body, that bubble outside my bubble. That's all I really need, really. But why must I return to my bubble to be safe? Was I truly so lost and blind when I was aborted that these suburban streets become my surrogate womb? And is this why I am grabbed, and grab so quickly for those other bubbles? Bubbles I popped. Bodies I bled. And I bled, and so did they, and mine did too. But I did reach my new bubble, and my new day, fresh out of space, and the needles have been removed, and disposed of, albeit not in pristine compliance with hospitalitic sanitization standards, but my head still glows, and it glows, and will continue to glow, until I've sapped every ounce of it's essence for emotional supports found in every day words, if you know how to read `em, buddy, you know, left to write, all the way.

"Aim carefully, we are watching," read the sign above the toilet, placed there by an ancient hand long ago. The circumstances regarding it's necessitation have long been forgotten, even by great grandmothers. It was written in the ancient script though, and was therefore considered holy and an unational treasure, and is still acknowledged by all who visit the shrine to this very day and sacrifice their divine feces to Vegetation Man. So it was written and so shall it be. Regarding sociopaths will often recollect young spurning mothers of overslawed housewives, letting matters of feces escalate the hollow of tin items, trainloads, and opulent grain abodes, and letting, and settling in broad outback spaces and let unto maces and slawed whereupon masons and alarming Illuminati make-up species equaling twenty-three opium bars with allarmingly high cardiac arrest rates and ultimate cheese puff greasiness.

Watchfore to expose me with Mary Sweeny's luggage in tow, sir. Please dial the operator, if you know what I mean, sir. I doubt it. Don't let me hate it when I come near, sir, relating open creamed corn for your former lover, sour cream munchies for him or her. Goose reloop and extra cruise monsoons left before the antelope suns. The gunslinging sherrif walked into the airport, his every muscle tense with vengance, but his was not a musical demise, and left for wino rhinos, kid. But I've never seen the man, but let him play my toon, but I've never felt that hand, just let him in your room, and release Doctor Creusou who may be damaged for security reasons. For security reasons do not accept any packages that are not your own. For security reasons, I'm home.

And let him see
My navel and this
Let me open young
Globules to lemon
Frost timpanies.
Sorry `bout all
The hair, boss.
No more slingsters.

And let are my
Vacume cleaners,
And wrong are they
In thier decietfull
Sweep, sweep, sweeping
Under the rug.

And let
Within green gnomes
Who sit on thier toadstools
And jig with thier
Whirligigs, and
Juggle tomatoes,
She's finally
Here, da
Freak!?

The doodles have come
The doodles have gone
The doodles have come and gone and come
So let me run, run, run...
Slip, run,
Trip, run,
Sly fun,
New sun,
Cream gun,
Lasso bun,
Tubular arangments of near astronomical satanic head bitey in the form of a strange, cheese-like substance that grows in your bong water, and after a prolonged period of heavy skuzzy kudzoo matter processing exhibits it's bizzare form of conciousness as baloon slying mastadons in excess quagmire gumshoe slinging matadors. And then there's the CD player out on the porch that, after absorbing enough smoke, would begin improvising it's own creative remixes of whatever we were trying to listen to. Oh well, so much for cheescake.

Tellable, tripable flower petals with telltale genetic reflux of automatic, Unidentified Funky Oranges when we pee openly in the greater relative of bush-like genomes, so let me see if I can reestablish this assemblage point possition even through severe concious turbulenceTUNEITOUTTUNEITOUTounge ring, sunshine. Let's let out the disco rings and reel in the drummer strings and let on to continuous continuous puzzle reassembly line layers of related, identical asian Ellicot fags at The Lake, "Take our picture, have some tea, take a lick of him or me, we'll bake a cake and set it free and celler sellers and yard junkies and lepton crazies slip slyly into teeth ridden gardens you snail, you fucking snail, you did this to you, and you did it on purpose, you did it on purpose!" So we vomited upon them thrice and grew The People Tree, and climbed it to the excelent Skycow, master of clouds and giblets and letter opening Roomarangs, you phallic green things, so eat up you juicey lake river monkeys with monkey liver snakes with the DJ killing the dancer, won't let him stop, don't let him drop, spin the fucker, lay it down, rip it off and rock the crowd, "Oh my God! My dead grandmother gave me that, and you just hurled all over it, you original space monkey zerbert, so where's the response? All hail the whistle crew, and props to the General." Sir Crane and Shift-A-Bob, let on the carnie slob, my balls are huge and silver-green, and so, or so I've heard's my spleen. "Lombaak ecree oplom Ah-plee ozona, ah-ah!" "No, you can not write on my dog! Wouldn't be proper, you silly gizmo floating, paper towel slurping, obese yellow grand orchestra punching box tune slamin' best greasing overloard." Salamanders taken to leverage beyond standard trainstation transitions, and lept upon by bootsocks within grown men, but now it's just gone and got silly. We let her believe in the musical bubbles that entered our lives from grazzy buzzard openings like little Hearshy kisses, why won't they leave me...ALONE!!! Lamb basted like butter crunch biscuits let in at an embarassing moment coenciding with my ultimate cerebral explosions of a seamingly gaseous apprentice lockedin a closet in Seattle but still in contact still in contact so I can't make annoying noises so dance...dance...dance...dance...shrimp please, green knees, orange peas, red seas, open without and open within, settled without and wrinkled with pinions and dallops so let on my crotch and revel in soldiers without not a thought so I said, so I said, so I said go on, go on, go on and let me seethe results of of micro fish and fish pope fuck so let me get some squares, just a square, none can spare `cept the cool ocean breezes that tickle my uvula with chain letters tying him down in the back seat of my mothership. "What's that mean?"

"That means what." So go, go, go, and get new frozen railing speakers for the baboons and tree spoons like barbells when I lift up mine stethiscope and reveal mine true intent.

Intent: tree slime.
Intent: glue time.
Intent: latent.
Intent: grub.

Then Brisquit Buddy let it go. I wouldn't let him leave until I slurped his personal graphics adaptors, but I need to call her again and again, around and around and around the world, so where's my pipe, bitch?! I'll let you have it when my latent it's reveals it to be my lint ball navel roll carole and spit camper lent pinroll sand offer camp regone pandible slimp smurf grandpa pants papers with shrimp salt and cheesy peppers, where's my friggin' ice cream, so why do you go out with the asshole, huh? Yum, yum, yum, plumb pudding evil anarchy, we must have a negative effect on all we see, correct? Especially if we don't get it! Oh yeah, hate that shit! Slipper bunch on-line cramp rippers, so where is my opening be bop, good God, this is exhausting...loosing...energy...need...more...caffiene!!!

You gremlin bastards, you've snorted all of my speed, and now you will pay, you damn Turks. Set me up for grand Monster Truck turds, and simply left on the road for Seven-11 sausages, you fucking ungreatefull pansy sniffer. So he slobbered on several heads of state in thier respective space dust stations without concern for glittery owl oil pads, so have you seen her lately.

She's pretty good, man. How does that make you feel, sir? You got it good, man. Imaginably turgid, sir, man, sir, Open leftovers man of lady sir siren let on to my stay head, sir, let's up and let out a hear, sir, to the sky, baby, to the moon, Alice, to the noon seperate systemmitry with lengthy measures, sir, so let it on, sir, left left or oh, oh yeah, Grandberry Major, sir, "The Major? Here?" So, okay, sokay let on the squat paper mill bug, sir, gonna let it party over, up, and down, Major Grubert and Mr. Jones watching from the sidelines, the Major licking is mother fucking chops, sir! Convent alpha major, sir, content open to public viewing just like my worldly appendisectomy wound, what a freakin' pet, I love his love in love let love groove love paper love, yeah. A little more, man, let it on, be on, turn up, fret love you slimey bastard! Grouper fishing in Hong Kong, fro freaky mooky strobe beatin' music, baby, tear it up Romulus, REWIND! REWIND! Open gators, slept on with crazy phat ass shit, man, lay that green on me man, open, OPEN, O!OP?PE!EN?N!?!? Gory over the sea looking for that shit, and over the moon, baby, man, sir, officer, sir, yeah glowin' open elephant effervescence to let open femur monkey if I keep this up, buddy manslime beyond critics when you see R2-D2 sexually pleasuring Sulu and Kirk who just passed out naked on top of each other after smokin' a phat pipeload a some mad Starfleet officer's space crack and makin' mad gay crack monkey jungle love set up and view the robotic aptitude of cellular communications interface, "Woo, that is wierd, man, let's get it." And kick stick hip slip hop flip fall fall fall. It's okay when you see it >TWHAIYS< Hit the rebass boot baby boot sockit on up and outa here. Where'd she go? Somewhere else. Sell amphires cell ampioles of sole sucking liquid for all my latent SQUIDS and and and and and HERE it COMES...slip it on, on, on, fly BEYOND*

When Rollos open
With major wrenfull
Camping mayor men,
Mouthfull, wastefull,
Then, and only,
Strip the gearhead,
Spy the Godhead,
Trim the glandular
Pen pig folding,
Folded greacefully:
Sand
And rocks
And straw,
Seat of energy
Constantly exploding,
But they don't care,
They don't care,
They don't
Care
For the new message
With a message,
A sensation,
A feeling,
Synthenasia
Inducing,
Crawling,
Insectoid calling,
Causing,
Seeing
Lived-in septum
Reflecting, reflecting,
Reflecting, inducing;
Can I get a fag, sir?

As your guest, I would like to tell you that major rodent infestations in my laundry won't allow me to go around the mall proclaiming the soveriegnty of my psychadelic tape worms who are the true embodiment of God, or so they tell me.

Philangical
Synchronized
Letter open,
Connecting
Razor spine
When counter pointing, blinking, whole, no skin, taking part in illumination at 5:23, can you hear them calling, chanting, wizards of the airwaves, chant, continue, relive life from the other side,
"Paradigm shift."
Following the shifting attention span linking units without letting concious energy interfere on any level like a snake rustlin' up a babe in the bush, know what I mean, sonny?
Freedom,
Random,
Chaos,
Not,
All
Is
Just
A
Noth-
Er
Term
For
All
And
That
And
This
And
Him
And
Her
And
Me
And
You
Or
Me
And
Me
Or
This
And
That
And
Me
And
Just
Liquid custard creamy flowing pure everything EXISTANCE

list bubbles. list crazy bubbles. have you heard about what the yen's doing to the mark? oh, yes, quite ghastly, carrying on like that as if Hitler was still in power. go ahead, girlfriend. find my soap, fix the market with your kind words and soft eyes. i haven't seen your car in a while. have you been good, or has someone reposesed your tires? they say you lost your handbag in a foriegn, arab nation, and when the authorities found it, they called the federation and let them know your lipstick is several shades too bright and the runs in all your stockings would give a mom a freight. point: narf!

I fear that the soundtrack to my life has been dubbed over by tiny, malevolent children, and thier happy little flesh puppets and flush puppys, thier folly of which I am engrossed, involved, observed from the inermost Chee-To's to the most outwardly windchuck.

I'd accomplished many an unknown virus for those big green boxes and comfy couches. Butterfly, let me see what you will be when a butterfly you are. (That's why it's always good to check if you've left innumerable items at the launch site.)

What do you do when you find out that the trunk you've been searching for all this time is empty, and mister angry reaches out and pokes you with one of his angry, angry tenticles?

Having never seen, nor even pretended to see such a blasphemous rumour I was not prepared to forgive her. In fact, her predicament took me completely by surprise. Maybe it was the fatigue of domestic reconstruction, the oft' disputed cry for supremacy and roving soveriegn record machines that only need just a little mo' wax to keep thier carbourators clean and free from excessive neon residue, and all this just because they aren't popular any more. Is that all anyone cares about any more? I guess so in a society governed by Pepsi commercials and MTV news programming directly into the mother fucking hard drive to left field where they rip out the beats with detatched enthusiasm infusing dog heads with cute little scarfs thier gramummies gived'em. So I expanded my hiatus and re-retired my little fuzzy bunny. What time is it? Time for cold toes pressed against my back, and little girls biting thier lips, and keen pool sharks gliding along thier costum designed low-riders, switch-blade buried in sand and designated by law abiding walruses atatched at the seams of thier teeth laden mystery pots, bonus buzz out the wazoo, the waxing skuzzy for me and you in my wallet-sized navel lint collection box forced open by adolescent penises, ripe and juicey and farting with naive anticipation. This, my friends and gentlemen, is what I'm trying to say. This...and that. And other things. And a large office cubicle, darkened, juiceless, and breathing, but still filled to the brim with a bizzare collection of novel items which could only possibly be reffered to collectively with one particulare word. And that word, my friend, if you might listen to me, an amazing word it is, who's use and potentual are often confused. For this is the word of microscopic giants and gargantuan niblets alike, and "stuff" is that word. Yes, "stuff." "Stuff" is that word, and that word is "stuff," so you can just imagine going home, turning on your TV and unvomiting a million carpet dust mites directly in to your cerebral cortex, because I HAVE HAIR! New York fuckin' City, baby, twenty-four seven eleven and ninety-nine cents with the extra super happy value meal combo package ticket service supplied by our own thoughtless friends at Pepsi/Microsoft/America, the commercial government corporation by and for nerds, poesers, models, and berbeques, so let's toss up that cookie salad and throw a few more shrimps in the melting pot, cultural fondu and hack saw memories for everyone, even the well endowed farm grown explosive types on thier way to Vegas to do thier part to destroy Art B. Lovegod and keep society a safe place for anyone we don't decide to shoot, just to be safe.

I awoke in the heat cellar, which was not uncommon in those days. None of my usual lovers was there beside me though, which was quite uncommon in those days. I had been terrified of sleeping alone, and here I was awakening with only oil and ashes for companions. A flash of panic, and then of anger. She must have left during the night, after all I'm sure I must have done for her. I was most likely the only reason she wa alive when she left while I lay there helpless and innocent. Maybe not quite innocent. I wonder who she was, why I had picked her. Not that it really mattered back then. I wondered more how much stuff she took with her, having all my horde of fun toys I relied on so much back then to pick and choose from on her new adventures, suposedly more fun than life with me. I wondered how long she might last on her own. I though it much more likely, though not as much morecomforting as you might think, that she was dead already. There were quite a number of humbugs who had grown vehemently resentful of all the imagined luxuries I had hidden away in my den, and many another thing with it's own personal scores to settle with me and, as such, stood ceasless watch at any possible exitways from my cute little compound. But I'd given up possible exitways long ago when I discovered the possibilities of impossibilities, unless I happened to be in a rather foul mood, which was actually quite a possibility right then, not that anything staring, unblinking at my home right then really cared anymore. Many would most likely ramain there, unmoving long after I was long gone, or even dead. I rather doubt they could move, or even think in the normal sense of the process any more. That's just the way the kind of things that found my home but couldn't get in were. Maybe they are simply a product of the way I hid my home, given up whatever they were to become thier vengance alone, one of the few ways one might be able to find me, but not enough to access me deep inside my fortress. Who knows? I'd gotten bored with thier kind long ago anyway, and only activated them when I was in the mood for quick, easy beatings, or a quick easy beating, which didn't happen much any more, and probably wouldn't even happen today. Unless I wanted to find her mangled body, which, in truth, I didn't, or I wanted to retrieve the things she took from me, though I know she would never have taken anything really usefull, and anyone who might come across them would find only horrible woes, as they were both powerful and stolen. So I finally got up, dusted myself off, and walked slowly up the stairs.

brenza speaks, and so samuel listened for the ungodly cries to end, but they never did, so he finally stood and rested on that mound, that thing which we will not care to speak of more, and let it be known to all of his compatriots that this was the last moment in which he would ocupy this space, and flashing like an unimaginably complex formation of psycoactive lightning bugs he lifted upwards from the wreckage and saught the lighter shades of gray in the sprawling uphevalistic benifits of flowering beating dancing insanity with letters to the regional antilope squad filling the room with troup requests and query ques and now the fancy literature stylings of senor creusou will slide into the mix of sensory manipulations and let on up for the liberating freedom of youthful scratchinplay marsupials and so i gave him another time spatula and he took it to his friend's house, and they tried it out. much was thier surprise when they found the funk on thier doorstep, and as it lifted them off in to the night, they sighed the sigh of men content with the downpouring light show and the fog and the wet. and the dry. they centered thier reactions around thier newfound reality sperm whales which flew not only through thier skies, but also through thier minds across the infinate, pulsating fields of tesselating ground earth plant field sky cloud vison environment you I and left it all behind and flew flew flew and where did they fly to, you ask me? I'll do better than tell you. I'll show you, if you'll follow. so, here, we pick it up and check it out. anti-orange heater snakes are often seen at this point, but don't let that bother you. Tis only natural that reality turn unrealistic in unreality, now isn't it. Now look at your tongue. Go on , take a good look. No one's watching, DO IT! there, that's better. mine hurts a bit, but i'll not get into why. not proper. anywho, so you disregard the garter snakes and leap, seeing your options diminished to a single point, and that point isn't you. no, it's not me. it's us. we are we, and we are all together, righto? you may experience or excivate tunnels at this point, and that's perfectly normal. After all, a little psychotic syndrome is a natural part of eating eighty-seven truely large and rougish barbarian warriors for breakfast. what, don't look at me. don't touch me, you slimy pink bastard! there's got to be some way out of here. maybe if i use the laundry chute. but it's infested with maggots. I know, that little girls hair. I'll hide in it, catch a ride, try out her kool-aid techniques on my little daemons, and have a logistics paradise trainspotting and sweater hopping. so, how bout them marmosats? have you been keeping up to date on thier latest devolopments in reality testing theory punctuating experience sequencing lime bannana networking does the bass get you creamy like I know it does? does your back door still glow with the footprints of that rat bastard. well, goodmorning honey, cause here's your tea and krimpits and life flashing before your eyes. there it goes. this is the flash, so flash already. Light them up with your caramel licorice metaphores for space sailing monkeys with large fuzzy yellow bunny slippers and big blue cigars from the Ciguri, not to say you couldn't devise a better plan to do it baby then run with that lemon rind monkeying hemisphere floating somewhere just above my conciousness if I could just jump at a certain angle i'm sure i could have it this is where the effot comes in buddy. this work don't slime itself, get juicy now or i'll lay my hands on far more yeilding flesh puppets yeah sure you will, don't give me that 'tude you fucking flesh-puppet nothingness you have no contol over your situation so i'm comandeering your mind for the good of the movement. bit soggy, but i don't complain, why slimey Bohagers do it all the same, they let on to thier puppies that they've rotten inflame but yesteryear with carcasses and buildings in flame. oh you want a rational thought do you, would that make you feel better? my greatest intent is that you might hear a thing in this that i'm not trying to tell you. do you hear what i'm not saying, man. look. listen. feel. red summer, the leaves unfolding, springing new with multi-hue cream pedistal full puppy podium for all to gaze upon with open veins and so the sun settled down into the vally, had a few kids, a dog, a Chrystler minivan, and visited the folks on holidays, and all was gay GAY? oh shit...and the art of noise brought in a rukus, and the bodies were strewn about the room, can words you write be cloistered cause for violating one's truth with renegades of this atomic aged cheese wizardry and letter running dark side agents at every corner tinkering with how much change you get back at S'leven so i'll reemburse ya, you'll so, but for now go out and break that rukus, or else there'll be no rukus and you'll be beat like your bowl. let's go find us some purple catapillars...fuzzy?...you betcha!

     |    Thee Rev St of Skuzzbunnies, Sr Elgaroo Brenza du sLAcKE
   * | *  Cytoplastic Ninja Clan, Psychic Enema Division
    /|\   elgaroo@13th-floor.org, elgaroo@hotmail.com
   / | \  http://elgaroo.13th-floor.org/
  (()|()) ICQ#: 1979348
   \/|\/  "Mis manos son rojos con sangre inocente."

All contents (c) 1998 Christopher "Elgaroo" Brenza with permission granted for all for any non-profit use, except:
The bunny image and Maxx quote on this page are (c) Sam Kieth
The sound file on this page is a recording of "Interlude #1 (Mission Impossible)" writen by Martin L. Gore, performed by Depeche Mode,
from thier Sire Records Company album, Music for the Masses [9 25614-2] and is a (c) 1987 copyright of Sire Records Company.