From: PharmacyCa.Store14 Subject: Big penis is very cool!

I have recently enabled adsense on my blog because I am a money grubbing twat who will stop at nothing to compromise the artistic value of my work for a few measly cents. Also, I'm incredibly curious what sort of products and services will be suggested, since ads will be chosen based on keywords from the blog which occur with a higher relative frequency. After a quick check at a website which performs this function I have found that the phrases used most often in this blog, in order of decreasing frequency, are as follows:

suicide
fleshlight
Antisocial personality disorder
"kama sutra methylation"
Why do I not get as much pussy as David Duchovny???
if you're reading this blog go fuck yourself you worthless cunt
intrauterine electrical stimulation of giraffe fetus
thalamic tentacle syndrome
stevia
barbara walters

Please enjoy the experience of being more tightly bound within the Wheel of Things.

Eliminate all desire through consumerism!

What is This Thing?

What is this thing weeping in the darkness, tearing the curtains with its madness as it sits cross-legged combing its hair obsessively? Open stitches stretch across its back in the shape of a door frame waiting to be opened and the key is a knife ripping without respect for bilipid membranes, for the unsealing cutaneous cutlets obscenely emptying out its élan vital voluminously, but prepackaged and stale, as if snatched from a donation box, spilled and left to simmer under an impotent sun whose ultraviolet rays still breed within tissues the blind machinations of cancer, life running amok into the loving arms of that specter Thanatos. Life hates life and loves death alone; the grip of rotting hands and roughly bitten fingernails scratching on polished skulls more resonant than blackboard screechings, yet worse for lended ears. And whose skull is this I find myself holding Hamlet-wise? Alas, poor Yorick, what a scab, an unbecoming bit of melodrama the bard might have left off, but so beloved! In charnel houses rings of fungal nova intercept each other in the graves of not-so-great apes, reaching with their furtive ciliary spindles more delicately than spiders weaving snares supine, spurred on by ungainly flies already stuck and spinning stupidly in their silken graves, wings working overtime, destined only to offer up their chitinous exoskeletons more hastily to fangs, toxins, liquefaction and total absorption into what their captors later became.

Dream V: Dead

I am in a large plane, one with two aisles, wide. I get up to go to the bathroom, there is a bit of turbulence and the plane begins to dive at a slight angle which gradually becomes more pronounced until it begins to upset the passengers. I say nothing as I stand in place bracing myself waiting for it to pass. Now the plane turns even more steeply in an arc towards the ground, and panic screams through the plane. We are going to slam perpendicular to the ground at incredible speed, this is certain, the pilot can do nothing. I wonder if it is water or land we are over, probably land. Still I am silent, I think to myself about the death I will soon know and the electric current of uninvited fear runs through my body, my heart beats faster, and I feel the intangible state of death already working itself into me, but at this moment, I decide to not fear what will happen, and not to think about it, because there are more important things to consider, because no amount of worrying will make a whit of difference. I close my eyes and meditate, the thoughts that do slip through my mind involve how soon the plane will hit, fifteen seconds? Six? Adrenaline released up to the last second, I enjoy its tremulous succor, drinking deeply. Touchdown, I wake up in the afterlife and record the experience of my death.

The Ides of Moths

Livid with strong drink and a fistful of airplane peanuts, in two great jumps I descend the movable staircase, rush past the astonished attendants and onto the sizzling tarmac, breakneck speed bounding through my legs. Before I can make it into the building moths rain from the sky in the fornicative trance, bearing down on me like heat-seeking dandruff. Allow me to explain.

Just one month ago a malignant tumor was found in my little toe. Being a devout Rastafarian at the time, I was tied by sacred laws to keep my body in its natural form and not to alter its limitless perfection. Quite at peace with death as I sipped on a cannabis and chai latte in my breakfast nook, I received a text from my oncologist which would spin the string of fate ending in the aforementioned hasty exit from an airplane and pursuit by lusty moths, a text which I will now reproduce exactly for your benefit: "Watup!"

Indeed, it was not much to go on, but upon viewing it I already knew that some fortuitous event had occurred. My oncologist had been a close friend prior to my diagnosis, but we had not been on good terms lately, owing to my staunch rejection of the simple amputation procedure he recommended which would have undoubtedly cured me, though not in the eyes of Jah. Thus, his mere contacting of me suggested that our current spat had been rendered meaningless. But it was in the exclamation mark in which I saw the greatest felicity for my condition, for my companion had never been known to use them at all. This was a fellow who, when he mass-texted all his contacts at the delivery of his firstborn after a grueling thirty-six hour Cesarian, capped the message with a solemn period. To engender within this man of science a feeling which necessitated an exclamation mark must be a perfect storm of incredible events, comprised of both sublime wonder at the revealing of some aspect of our universe (and in finding that this fresh knowledge specifically works in one's favor) and at the relief of a chest-crushing anxiety as some evil thought previously to be unconquerable reveals itself as a misunderstood prank. Yes, the only thing which could provoke such punctuation in this man were the simultaneous realizations of one, having just discovered a novel scientific principal and two, saving the life of a close friend. 


Understanding all this immediately from those few characters and having briefly consulted with Jah as I washed down the greenish dregs of my latte, my response was this: "Work me in asap, how soon should my plane leave?" A passage to the African motherland had been foremost in my mind after my diagnosis, but all my doctors had advised me that it would be unwise to travel and I had agreed, also thinking of the family and friends who would want to be at my bedside for my final moments.

He called me back in five minutes, presumably after he had painstakingly removed his airtight lab suit (whose restrictive presence about his head had necessitated the text) and breathlessly explained the particulars of my reprieve from death. He had just accidentally proved the efficacy of a novel gene-therapy technique which would cure my cancer within the proscriptions of Rastifarianism. Though gene-therapy would ordinarily be forbidden, the peculiar way in which the treatment was administered created an interesting loophole. Modified viruses would be injected into the bud of the cannabis plant where they would infect its cells and lie dormant, then, with the application of heat, the virus, now modified into its therapeutic form, would become activated and present within the products of the combustion reaction, which, if collected and inhaled deeply into the lungs, would enter the bloodstream and thus mend the misspelled strands of DNA which caused my cancer.

this.

A still pond forgets itself,
the ripples remind.

Diogenes

Athens then Corinth
then
a statue of a dog, immaculate except
he would have wanted it pissing,
no
that was already too much for him,
wasn't anyone listening?

The Action of Claws and Teeth

it is cheetah walking,

hungry and thin cheetah

loping with constant ease

grasses curving and tilting

to let cheetah through

with dead eyes listing

to capsize malevolently

onto bouncing bouquets of legs.

and cheetah, stretching,

on lowered legs seeps forward

through curved grasses tilting,

whispering to themselves

tapping at his jaw,

scratching his belly

and in the distance:

bundles of legs flipping,

beautiful handles for dewclaws.

cheetah stalks and thinks of grasping,

the action of claws and teeth

and running and eating and fear and fighting

and all for the pilots of those legs in the curving grasses

but the grasses don't run,

they grow up while legs grow down,

though the piercing sun blends them as one.

why to pilot them away

always away from cheetah,

and he forgets this,

he inspects them again

Scratchings at the Underside of the Earth (As Written and Spoken on 11/1/10)

Scratchings at the underside of the earth rend the ground from below with inverse furrows, plowing the surface to sow the bleached bones of the ancient dead. They peek out into the air and after a fortnight sprout, reaching out to grasp the legs of crows and kittens, leeching their anima and transmuting it into the festering black bile which nourishes the nascent necrotic flesh beneath, blooming with the putrefying shades of rotten carrion found dangling in vibrant strips from the hooked beaks of stoic vultures, decaying with exquisite perfection into the same forms as the burrows of ants or the intricate paths of slime molds pulsating in livid networks upon the cold, indifferent earth. Resting upon this boundary on both sides, as a thing reflected and its image, do we divide our infinite time between.

Dream IV: A Cheery Descent

I'm showing my grandmother Jurassic Park for the first time, we watch it on a television screen, I am caught up in the action unfolding on screen, and thinking that the actors are performing incredibly subtle and powerful performances. The scene is a airplane, large with everyone walking around as though it were the lobby of an expensive hotel, a girl talks on a phone arguing with her sister or room mate back home about which music they've traded or lost or whatever. It pans to the right and as it does so I enter the frame, leaving my grandmother behind in the living room. The plane is merely gliding now guided alone by the reigns of inertia, presumably to its doom, yet nobody cares and I am only a little uneasy. I soon notice as I enter the cockpit, that the plane has become quite diaphanous and apparently has turned into clouds shuttling through the air. I sit on a cloud bench behind the pilots and look around at the others, they realize the crash is inevitable, but they don't let it get them down and chat amiably with each other. After a while of this the plane begins to slow, almost to a stop and everyone looks at each other with the inevitability of the situation on their lips, but say nothing as the clouds on which we sit suddenly begin to drop down horizontally, still supporting our weight, taking the slightest of pauses as we reach the beautiful moment of apex, in that instant I am filled with erotic terror, but after it I delight in the sensation of free fall as we plummet into the whirling steam burgeoning out of a volcano at incredible speed. Exhilarating, and good for the heart. Weighing nothing, I wake up in thick gravity.