Pin up, kid. In the 21st tomorrow, land of the free, you can't yelp but teeter puerilessly through the flameboyant fucktery, the brands standing eyeffensive, sure, but ink-stamped, man-dated as necessity. And while the faux-lux dumps faux-tons and the smooth-right jazz faux-non-noises yourringa and you fume such fury that the teeter tots must see you red, radiating rage, practically bout to burst, you look down the lane, past the shoppers in training, the caps in camp, the cols in coll, the moocow mothers (but you shouldn't think that way), and the plastic peeps (you really shouldn't think that way), you see the exit, glass dooers sliding open, ever accommodating. It's no better or worse out there, cause in here out there gets subsumma'd. Hera terra, helter skelter; the hole Earth packaged and shelved, set for this play. And when you hate the atery you ate the eart. No, naturally, no, you don't care fuor al dia furrow.
Here; out of the jungle into the fridge, poor brutus served up, the devil himself gnawing at his head. What rows for plastic-packed meat. Man's gotta eat. If the temp keeps increasing it all might thaw, maybe come back alive. Back to the kicking and screaming, kissing and dreaming. Imagine em running around the store, fit to hit, crashing, cushing… a bull sitting in a shina shop.
Myrina leads the burning women outta the dessert; they raze Cern, decrying the particle pounding that exemplifies the modman; idiota, you'll kill us all; try to burn wild-hair's forest but get gor gone, chased away, turned to stone; you hafta raze up; what rock felled her, our stone sister, leaning, handless, that ancient marble? You met her once, and louvred her till it made you sick. Not to your tate. The imperial woman, hand onner head, almost admonishing herself. Quid feci? Did they really cut of their breasts so they could better shoot a bow? The galt of some people, I swear.
Thoughts swirl like fluid, sloshing like the 'sposed snot-green sea. That's all there is, rightt? Mucous: slimy matter shocking itself around the store. Look at the list, 'cause ranting about the pile of bones ain't gonna put food into the still living. Man's gotta eat. What we making?
Peanut Dragon Noodles. Chili garlic sauce. Rough chopped chilies and gobs of garlic. Pre-packaged? Red and gooey, shelf-sitting, in a bottle with a rooster perched. Cucullate the shame versus hand-making the sauce yoself. Heads of garlic, peppers, shallots, vinegar, sugar, peanut oil, salt. Imagine the waste-land if you brought those bits, bought them home, ripped them out from their plastic skin, poured them into a bowl. In their industrial operation the cock-kids can mass-produce the sauce more efficiently and at a lower cost and at a lower impact- the absolute truth is that you don't need chili garlic sauce for your Dragon Noodles any more than you need the Dragoon Noodles themselves. Explain why you deserve to eat Dragon Noodles that come at such a cost. Heaps of Hadean wealth dug up and dumped out for your gustatory gratification. Endless diamonds dug out of the ground by oodles of noodle-less losers, slipped onto those doubtlessly philanthropic phalanges; philanthroprickally pricking bloody di-mans dying, like a good-natured butt dirty needle infecting all the blood it torches. The willy sneke snaking through the pre-den grass, the bin-sin ante-dun. The adversary sees her here, thus alone, and before long the missers and mussers that miss up and muss down miss her and him, for death, that constant save expenses, hadhim.
The man still gotta eat, though. Allow the following inquiry: if a dum sin singed him, can you blame him? Consider our clumsy clozlet, stuck deep-dark. Pillfarer of the community, a business-boy, on talking terms but unwed to the mother of his children. What is he spoused to say when you tell him, TBH, he oughta be onest. Why the onus on us, on you, to put out for the put down? And don't forget (cause you can't never forget) that you, in some minor, indiscernible but certain way, are at fault. Cause you weren't forceful enough or accidently led onwards or whatever.
In the big black truck that, when it pulled up, stared you down. Looking at it through the window, trying to pretend you can't see it. Shut tight your eyes. Squeeze them hard, hoping that when you open them the truck will be gone, or you'll wake up, or something will happen other than what always happens; him, in that fucking white tee that clings to his stomach and that flat-brimmed hat that hides half his face, strutting proud as a hecock, but awkwardly, towards the door.
Ice cream could comfort in this trying time. Vanilla is no good. Vanilla only works with too many toppings or as part of a float. Chocolate is better but still plain. The best ice cream comes with treats tucked in. Cookies n' cream or cookie dough or- but you have to denye such inverse impulses.
Done. It's over. Cart toward the exit. Leave with some shred of dignity and probably a six-pack. Get butt get cut.
Anger inward, or upward. Bubbling, boiling, always almost bout to burst. Didn't enrich enough to get critical mass, though, or you'd be doing something. Out and about. Doing something. Out. You fissil e den, frazzled, look wildly around, struck dumb, just a nother dumb-dud-dude. Dammit.
And those tabroids raging, screaming, text in all caps. Look at the plastered pics. Drain your eyes on the truth, custom ordered. Teeter trot through the teetering unreality. Old joke. Woman on the phone too much. Gabbing away. Ignores husband. Husband runes to the corner store and telephones his wife to ask her what's for dinner? I'm trying to odour take-out, you idiot.
The schizofrantic number gives the appearance of rationality at points. Image n as positive y odd, and let f(n) rep the int given by f(n)=10*f(n-1)+n. The square root of f(n) produces a number ostensibly rational in strings but chaotic eventually and overall. But we increase n we can prolong the rationality into perpetuity. Sanity gone insin. Meta, for an oracle. Prophecy beaten down at the last minute. Once the irrationality appears the facade cracks and you know its only a matter of time. Keep increase n. Prolong perpetually.
The cash-here kid, conveying good, upright and prosper. Jet-set hair, prodded, slucked back. Un brow raised, unassuming. Checks red, chuckling (sinceriously?) at something sum hun told him. Buck up, pine, kay? It's cool to chill. Set it on the belt. Six Michs, cookies, cream, not delivery, pop, drops, and rolls. Hell thinks youse a slobberer. Set screaming, phishing with photons. You, dumb I, eating it up. The blue glow washing your stone-set face; your stoned-face watching the blues go. Speak, speck. Man's gotta eat.
Post-diluvian. Won't do it again. ROYGBIV back in bizz. Pen out, kid.