You just went there. But, we’re tougher. We’re going to say that married men lie down in the cemetery with no idea how to forward a question. They may start to speak but mid-syllable they sink, umbiferous, into dewy moss.



DEFINE? JARGOGLED? First, Cumberbatch’s babydaddy at his other man house. Now, he Spanish love kitten on board. Firkytoodling $20,000. He sell his aglet to the most famous no-thing no one never saw, nor heard.



I just bought a poem. I submitted it immediately. No slippers. No gonads ahead. I can’t share my music. The walls vibrate.



They turned to Queen Amidala of Naboo, who was tumbling nature, killing the story itself, and they crooned, “Symbolic memory, do we have to memorize dates?”



Oh, mercy—the problem of the placeholder…blurred lines and new sensations. The worst critic ever, the worst critic, beat the world through a paucity of facebooking. The paucity of facebooking? People were having lots of babies, prospecting for that better possibility of becoming relatable. And me? A selective pain in the selective ass—selective symbolic memory. Who controls the story itself? She who tumbles in the rhythmic something. Tumbles with? This brings me to the Reformation.



I’m not comfortable with the way he talks about feeding cattle blood to the animals. So old and condescending. I do NOT like him, or his dispelling the myth of the na├»ve nonconformist. You see, my relationship with power breaks down less now that I let emotion, passion, and feeling decide.



Sissinosis. Y’all, sea otters robbed me in the ass.


Smite the clock before it starts to duplicate my body. Twiddle, bite, and down its filaments: they’re alive and finifugal and spit forth Hawking radiation. Fast, lie down and pray for that most famous gesture that no one saw or heard, the lesion of appreciation.



Who controls byssinosis? Robbed, robed, orbed, bored, bred, bro.


Porny rantipole. Show off. The instructions for epizeuxis are either in the box or the utility drawer.


Remember, the pile you set aside sometimes is the pile you were interested in, but not the pile that you’d kept for its compelling misinformation, rather the pile from Wyndham Lewis in Cambodia, the pile that did not convert, which is more a pile of awkward metaphors, Buddhist responses carrying throw-away wishes, moronic guesses, unlike the pile in line with catholicism, its circulating, the sometimes pile. 
(I got it all, but I wasn’t sure where to put these left over parentheses.)


Inside a large doll collection, the research group deferred all strenuous thinking, having found that up to eighty-two percent of husbands and wives make changes under the sign of financial difficulties. Dystopian drones outside the one garden on earth, they support the volte-face of more than sex partners—of compensation plans and email accounts. Honey, you can die at any time during delivery.



No prepubescent oxford comma. No pregnant whine. Ah. Self doubt.


I wanted to try a bagel in the most extreme situations, to hear it go >tink< in the toilet. I’m a dude; I’m superman. The top of my head makes a hairdryer and tells me a secret. In the words of the child of David Blaine, “If we can do speculative storylines, what are you doing?”