"Selfie at the Dog Beach" (Men for Women)

I'm so lonely I put on pants fro no reason

Even in pants I am alone

I hope the dogs are barking about me

I hope these dogs like wet raisins because that's what I brought to their party

It's humiliating being alone at a party

My fetish is humiliation

And loneliness

Around noon, you were taking a selfie with your dog

And you caught me watching

Andante Cantible

andante cantible

me:  dude, you should totally jerk off in front of a lightining bug

Matt:  hell yeah

five random images from google image search as described on Facebook during a cyber-psychotic episod

five random images from google image search as described on Facebook during a cyber-psychotic episode

1.

Arrogantly, they say they can cut the sea in strange shapes, drawing outlines and lines with arrows through their flat smears, whatever. Insofar as there are objects in the sea, all of them are unidentified. Insofar as there can be paths to them, well, they are everywhere. Wave your hand around in the dark: that's how you can tell you have a hand, you feel it and thus you believe and feel yourself capable of perception. Ball up your hand and use it to punch yourself in the balls (MEN): you have drawn the path to an unidentified object in the sea. 

In the dark, ignorance and pain are two different things but each capable of taking each other's places like liquid suspended in other liquid in two different (equally shitty) gravities. 

2.

I only like a color or two, but i need a lot of things in that color. Preferably lots of shiny 

sticks--color in its purest form. Put the top of the sticks in bags so the color doesn't escape. Don't put the entire stick in the bag or else you will forget why the stick is in the bag. I do a lot of things to remind myself. I like to put other-colored sticks in bags next to bags of my favorite ones to remind myself about how much other colors suck.

3.

…in the beginning the world was melon-hued, then it grew salmon, and somehow (oops, almost said someHO) it grew sickly blue-green. the world grew legs to cross over its aquamarine crotch so it wouldn't pee. what would happen if the world peed? 

God's beautiful lady arm would probably dip in the puddle with a thermometer striped like the world...

4.

I am a process with five critical stages enclosed in four critical capsules. At five, the capsule is finally burst and my head is diffused in a fire. 

I begin as a cylinder with a green head. 

My core grows hot, which is not clear until a yellow skin grows on it and my head shrinks to a red dot. 

Before they explode, things become small. 

When they explode, I guess they are the smallest. 

They become nothing. 

Step six: I am nothing.

5.

Where am I? I am in front of a reflective computer screen, but I am not here. What is there? The back or the inside of another computer, but only its reflective shadow. I put my hand on each of my breasts, open my chest, and from inside of myself, I project the white words between the two walls of shaded reflection: The NEWSROOM. The Newsroom drops its own name onto the ground beneath it, and there, the words lie on their back. Yes, the Newsroom.

last night when i thought i was gonna die haha

morose

moonless

musket

mouse-loaded

rifling under the sink in the bags
or bragging of its stealth-annulled motion sensors
to the dark that harbors
the unmoored murderer.

unmurdered,
I mourn
for the morning,
the mouse
censored, too, rues
(and the killer as well
must regret)
rousing me:

all fell still
clipped in the safety
of the wind-barrel (insensate steel)

               
                     ...although Matt
                           saw a bottle.

Day of Long Sighing

a day of long sighing

three sties in my eye

no pie on my plate

the day of long knives

long widows who are the ghosts of the wives

pulling out of the slats, taut as cats

on the wires, alive but retired

toothless hair

garbage and fried

cat mummy pyres

spitfires put out with spit

shitty fires

The Future Part 1

One of the best things about the apocalypse is that no one died and people even kept being born afterwards:

I am bored. So bored I check the weather to see what will happen. I don't see if I will be bored later, I don't know how to find that out.

People are different now. These days, people have sex with robots and live off their cum. This is better than the exchange of sex for money in some ways but not in others.

There is a lot to consider.

What little things come from big things?

There is the sea and then there are ceilings.
The larger reflects the sky, the littler ones are the sky reflected
thrown back up in little waves: smooth, solid light made white planes.

There are grapes and there is grappling.
Stone fruit crumble off the rapine's crag:  arm-to-arm, neck-in-neck, face-to-face,
a struggle to mouth grape, mount the guardrail, and surmount
the archaic rubble, the garbled reward:
death grip in the garbage garden.

There is kind and there is kindling.
Kind is a kind of kind already and kindling is a sub-kind of kind.
This is one of those infinite relationships, numbers and in-between numbers, on the one hand--
--on the other hand, all things in time can truly be said to exist simultaneously:
If, by the time we could count all the animals old ones don’t die out and new ones are born (thus making the living an infinite number in time),
perhaps kind and kindling aren’t related at all.

There are ears and there are earrings.
A selfish reproduction, aimed at enhancing
the hear-and-remain-unseen (but vain) ear’s appearance.
Without their offspring, ears are forgettable. Many earrings
die before they mature into ears, as they are born vain--and prescient.

There is kind and there is kindling.
Kind breeds the kindling of friendship and love.

There are stars and there are starlings for reasons that will become completely obvious, so obvious that this relationship forms the proof of why obvious is always the same size, either hermaphroditic or thought to emerge spontaneously (enigmatically).

There are years and there are yearlings.
Years come in horses and yearlings are year-old horses.
One is one smaller.
Picture two ones: the smaller one is still one.

There are motes and there are motions,
each hung in the mane "elemental," a halo.
Motes sparkle on the mantle, never monotonous,
but intoning the micro-maneuvers of momentary inter-light lapses,
slopping up stillness the slob, elemental.

There are toys and there are toilets.
Stella, étoile is the French word for star and toilette
is the French word for what she wears on her play date.

Dressed to the nines (the Plutos, indeed),
she flushes away her childhood, flashing in orbit
a playful display of her décolleté—

--there are cocks and there are coquettes.
While one begets the other, they are always the same
size in relation to one another because before dawn,
it is too dark to see a coquette.
And before the crow, they are no cocks.
In the light of the rising sun, cocks and coquettes
come to know one another. Crepuscular confusion
leads them to ask these questions of which one came first,
although of course.

There are marks and there are marches.
One passes through the next and the last, through the other, like names twirling on a marquee, with a certain click, at a certain
clip, sliced one flat and the next perpindic--
the shape of planes intersecting in space
like a sky if there were no Earth or sky--

There are couples and there are couplets. Picture two twos: the smaller ones are still twos.