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The textbook had always born an unrequited love for the switchblade, but today these anthropomorphic objects' relationship to one another would forever change. Tim had posted Understanding Human Behavior on Half.com, so the lonely object knew it had a limited time to confess its love to the switchblade. The young princess, what with her seemingly innocent starry glow and coruscating countenance, had it coming, and she knew that his rheumy listless eyes - transfixed upon the elephant's trunk which stood over the boy's budding breasts (thanks, steroids) like some nether black angel. But what of the fish? And what of the octopi? Threatened on all sides by technocratic-capitalist apparati, the meanest fish and octopi coevolved into some monstrous sea creature. Tentacles flailing this princess knew she had just ingested an overdose of rodenticide, rohypnol, and barbiturates. She staggered with such grave, wavering and undulating, the martyred atheist retained his composure as his entrails were fed to wolves, his eyes devoured by spiders, and his feet gently daubed with beauty powder. He decided, in his last few seconds, that it had not been a good idea to vote for Google for Chancellor. Jesus Christ himself would have been my vote, if only I could bring myself to admitting I have a problem... bulimia, a raging compulsory unceasing yearning to satiate the binge/purge regimen of wafers and grape juice menial and routine in the face of a more militant and masochistic lifestyle choice of plucking out one's fingernails and serving them (unbeknownst) to one's relatives at family reunions in order to affirm one's Marxist disavowal of bourgeois family relations. The princess loved how the spermatozoa seeped from her father's pursed lips, though she always found herself in a lackadaisical and solemn emotionless abyss, but, having read Beyond Good and Evil, was careful not to stare into the abyss too long long, lest it stare back at her. At long last, the textbook leaned close to the switchblade, and the switchblade to the text, and the blade made the juices of sweet, sweet ink flow out of the text until sunrise. When Tim saw the mess, he knew he could only sell the textbook for a third of what he originally posted it for, and not so proudly exclaimed, "Fuckdammit."

like nightmares roasted on a playground's sandpit, crackling on the spit shedding sound like a snake shedding skin amplified a thousand times by a microphone delicately held in the coiled proboscis of a moth hovering with wings stamped with black eye-spots which scare a bird off sometimes, beak parting to emit blackboard screeches at the sight of eyes staring back with simulated hunger, screeches that recall the shouting of every animal at every animal whose jaws part to devour and then to scream for their own lives, cries that reverberate in one instant where all things exist without purpose as curious sculptures removed from time, the universe now a single motionless object, if seen from the right angle; every animal has turned to amorphous snakes winding limp coils around favored places; a clear spring or a shady tree which now bears the green leaves of every summer splayed on each branch awkward as a hand with thirty fingers, and each leaf also drifts to the winter floor in waterfalls of autumn color slowly faded to cracked gray to loose brown soil, just where the new-formed snakes finally halt and sink into the soft ground, anchoring themselves to the earth where fungi explode in rings to bind at their loci the intersection of life and dirt. There is no other instant than this, say the mystics to no one while gathering at a Buddha's feet and the Buddha does not say anything just as the sky and the grass do not say they are blue and green.

Disease

Disease and death sculpt the body; death back-ends the pruning, disease its middle section, its protruding black belly, quivering as the head and feet stay fast and still, elegant in the finality of the act, they relaxed. It was horrific for all in the room. Hot sprays of bile sizzled on the floor rejoicing in their release from the body along with Lady Gaga, obviously the drunkest slap-happy tranny within the six-county area. Miley Cyrus found herself in a bed of rocks with Justin Bieber, however; later in the morning she screamed Aaron Carter's name after his breakfast, which consisted of Lucky Charms, pineapple juice and a salmon cutlet, so she ventured to the library to discover who this Aaron Carter really was, a pan-dimensional being composed of the concentrated regret of people, who, after having woken up in a strange hotel room, discover a giraffe lieing next to them smoking a cigarette, which as it happened was the figurative straw that broke the camel's backs in terms of carcinogenicity giving them both cancers of the brain which resulted in everyone gaining unique superpowers. Where the dro at? Where the dro at? Where the dro at? Where the dro at? Where the dro at? Where the dro at? Where the fuckin' dro at? he asked in time to a G-funk beat, but his young daughter could scarcely hear him over the terribly cracking bass of his Wal-Mart stereo system. He sighed, frustrated with her inability to comprehend English. So he did as any good British boy: dashed her brains with his leather book bag.

Ball, Hugo (1979-2032):

Inventor, poet, and accomplished saxophonist. Born to a poor cobbler and his two androgynous wives (an Earthling and a tentaclebot from the eighth dimension), Ball grew up an only child. With no sibling in his life Ball grew imaginary friends in his imagination to give him what he knew sibling gave each other; pain, humiliation, black eyes and dirt sandwiches. Needless-to-say, Ball's imaginary friends are the reason he became who he was, always drinking a quart of vodka for breakfast to "take the edge off" followed by shooting off thirty rounds of live ammunition into the ceiling and looking angrily at all the spots in his apartment where he believed they had installed the surveillance equipment and inadvertently caught some of the kinkiest shit ever uploaded to the web. We're talking geriatrics, livestock, feces, and a general disregard for human life. A tasteless man, steeped in controversy after abandoning his family to run free with the slime molds of New Zealand, whom he had always felt a strong attraction to, ever since his psychoanalyst had diagnosed him as a marine biologist. Needless-to-say, he was a bit perturbed by the hormonal changes that accompanied male pregnancy, and sought solace by occupying various suggestive positions in public places --not because he meant to offend anyone, but because protruding his groin was the only way to relieve the unbearable pain of pregnancy. Arnold puked his guts out every time he remembered the awful time he was pregnant, only stopping the endless stream of vomit to speak to the American public, yelling out the window of his bathroom, "My fellow citizens, I have given it much thought over the pass three hours since my last defecation and perhaps I ingest too much dairy."

Dear Jah's Holy Groove Senators Currently Underneath Colorado,

A strange terrible feeling suffuses the room, outside birds fall from the sky in clumps and burst into flame squawking passages from the Book of Mormon squirting feces upon thee jeweled amulet which gave whatever species of mortal that possessed it the power of eternal flatulence. The royal family was quick on the assault. I turned on the cable news network wrecked with strife, a young woman appeared on the screen, speaking tongues. I could make out the sounds of celestial star-traveling hyper-dimensional beings in the back ground. Their infinite longing for the limits of space and time had brought them to our home world, constricted them to the earth as our atmosphere's gases constricted the blood vessels of their lungs in languid lurching torture and as they reached their hands skyward in want of escape, only their fingers penetrated the gaseous cloud-like budding mushroom caps floating delicately on the surface of a purple pond. I swam up to touch my nose on one of the bubbles. What you don't learn in the science museum is the secret of a fish's scent: it's all in all in third gill. Scientists don't publish information like that. They don't want the average public to know that politicians have excavated caves in Colorado to store a massive cache of marijuana so in the event of nuclear apocalypse all the senators can continue to smoke trees and listen to their Bob Marley records headed east through the fog. Out of the mist appeared an apparition, which stayed with them for a number of days and taught them the secret of Jah's Holy Groove. Suddenly I felt a strong pressure on the back of my neck. Was this the effervescent rapture I had so longed for? My eyeballs exploded into fiery jizz as last.

Exquisite Corpse cb dw

Excerpt from a dating site for schizophrenics: "...and I really enjoy 'Fi, fie, foe, phylum,' it's my favorite post-punk melody to masturbate my grasshoppers to. Oh, that's the thing: I work from home, masturbating grasshoppers, and periodically receive stamps in return that are redeemable in exchange for the exclusive publishing, TV, movie, and twitter rights for the next 20 years, and a handful of gummy bears made from the fingernails of political prisoners whom I meet every Tuesday after getting a crack rock in exchange for giving a handjob to my dad's chiropractor. Did I mention God's lava lamps watch me as I anally probe myself with cigars stubs and candy canes? Surely, you remembered to shake out the magic carpet and empty out the souls of the marketers into the trash bin? They will be awfully cranky if you haven't. Paris may be a city, very well, I grant you that, but I know from the most definite experiences that it is also a starport where underground vessels managed by immortal authors who faked their own suicides find their way toward sublime dystopias carved directly into the rock by ancient peoples struggling to find the best ways of resurrecting their dead in order to chastise them for sloth. Ignoring the opportunity to make love to an anteater (but only if it gives verbal consent in its native tongue) is just fucking unacceptable, in my book, which reminds me, I hate all the fuckers who take my whip-its and claim to representatives of the Society of the Friends of Crime while actually, all the while being under the direct neural control of a team of blundering bureaucrats trying to secure their pensions but only garnering small heads of lettuce from well-dressed chinchillas who participate in polyamorous relationships with my next door neighbor. Which brings me to the question of knitting. Please, I'm begging you, get the fuck out of my face, if you are, underneath that warm appearance, truly a pair of needles and a cashew tree.

8.24.10 exquisite corpse cb zs

Pause, Harold. The dear man's eulogy's not yet over. Yet Harold still insisted that since Cartham stole his integrity long ago when they still swam in moss lagoons with juniper treeps whom the Earth First activists would not relinquish without a fight. They donned their wild glam transvestite uniforms and subsequently seduced the finest corporate fucks in all of town, careful to take pictures for some yellow journalism. A coalition between the Christian Right and anarchoprimitivist Left thus formed, electing a battered, deep-fried Armenian child to the seat of His Ranch-Dipped Holiness, Conqueror of Yugoslavia, Defender of Venezuela, and Knitter Extraordinaire. Of course, the title meant nothing, a mere formality, but he was pleased to noticed the scowls he now elicited from passsers-by right away. The next day at work his kindly giraffe of a boss summoned him and asked, "The ketamine's beginning to wear down. Are you sure being humiliated by having a superior corporate title really constitutes maiming the Chairman's daughter?" Lewis shrugged. In his heart he knew the consulting firm could eat for at least eleven days, providing they could keep their investment fresh. "My Christ! I've done it again! Another high return of investment! Surely I will be smiled upon by Zebra, the gnostic god of deception who created the world out of malice. And what more can a man who was once an Austrian princess ask for, other than that the State recognize him as a witch.' I celebrated by wallowing in the shit of my second wife, which I had saved for her glorious reincarnation. The smile of the young girl left me in utter awe: the scream of too many years gone by compelled me to open the jar and dump its contents in that rare, peach visage. She screamed, and I could not tell whether 'twas out of sublime terror or ecstasy, but Timothy Leary cared not a whit, and thrust the dagger out of his junk and into hers. Tantric to the max, baby!

My tongue pierced the esophagi of inebriated mongooses, which were not in the creatures throats, but rather slathered about the table along with abundant quantities of cashews, cocaine, and anti psychotics. A noise. I reach for my handgun, but found only a pair of mice, contorted and halfway into the bardo. They blinked at each other once totally inside. "Oh Clarence, " Julia von Mouseberg cried, "We're stuck entirely!" Clarence paced and ran his fingers through his whiskers, "Well, my dear, it is my opinion that the soul resides within the left earlobe and any piercing will result in instantaneous satanism," he continued into the void. The ship he knew could take them the billions of parsecs they had to travel through emptiness to reach their new home. He checked the life support and suspended animation systems and sparked up a doobie. The ship maintained inertia through the endless night. My jaw remained glued to that of the young boy, and we bled together, wept together, and screamed together through the morn. The next day, having eaten a whopping dish of entrails for breakfast, I went into the Wells Fargo office, ready to perpetrate more socially permitted forms of cruelty. Such is the game of life. You knew I never expected much. The light from the street was enough most nights to make out the bodies in our living room, or as one of the travelers called it - the rumpus room. So I cut my losses, swept the ashes into an empty bottle with my hand and looked at him.
"Nothing we do will bring out little Tyson back m'dear" Clarence always had a shitty attitude about girls who ate their young. He recycled the empty bottle as prompt as a mouse with Parkinson's could. I wondered if Julia von Mouseberg knew of our tryst, the most magical three weeks I had that fiscal year. Julia would never approve of the way I acted those days, nor agree with any of my outlandish requests, such as for 32 geese roasted on a spit with coals used to burn small children, or the time I demanded that my assistant be burn at the stake for witchcraft after I noticed that one or two of my funyuns were missing from their cages. The fight for freedom ha dbegun. Denny the gorilla took out the guard with a full nelson while the giraffes took care of the zookeeper. Due to the delicate nature of our viewers, I will not divulge how he disemboweled his coworkers in order to create the conditions for an orgy full of cross-species sex and bestiality. Needless to say, it was a failure, and the lonely zookeeper hanged from high noon in short months, never confessing to the priest he was a technopagan atheist at heart. The priest, unfazed, handed himan earthen vessel through the window of the confessional booth. Not flesh, but fermented like death the transmigration of grain to a form viscous and sweet. He said, "as it runs down your throat, it will trickle and take with it your guise, stripping you to our naked state: silent, solemn, and smelling like the dirt of the burnt earth."