Monday, May 16, 2005
Wunder
Fuzzy digital noise beauty. 2:01AM CST.
Coffee tomorrow, join us old church women at 8:30AM CST.
Alas, Ems shot off on a plane to China, and I'm here eating yam soba noodles alone. Staple food number one. My mysteriously busy phone cleared up and I've gotten calls from everyone tonight. I wonder.
But like the Scarlet Witch it's a bloody Cunningham inspired reality shift. AAA day today. This is oddly enough the first time in 10 years that I've gotten three A's. It's bizarre. The slack has disappeared. Brag.
My mind is in some sort of bizarre Japanese goth apple garden, with light tubes and androgynous Man Ray subjects. Flourescent mixed with dirt and Loire. I have free license with this vanilla spray too, so it can be garden of the bean's smell. Carelessness future but a few metal marbles falling from the shelf too, "..and on and on and on.."
LKASMHJ?
But let's make a quick split. Over to the pyrocreamer lab in the basement. "I don't wanna go down to the basement?" you say? Too bad. Oh fuck you. I'll go alone. And what will I find down there? The purple goddess. They don't make themselves like they used to. Well, they could never make themselves like that. Because the purple goddess was never like them. Her blood tasted like the watery syrup in a can of preserved fruit. It was wonderful. She was named after the most holy of all donuts. Her wit was bolder than a rubber mallet, sharper than the edge of printer paper. It was beautiful, what you could do at about 7:00AM CST on the corner of 44th and Central Ave NE with her.
Back to the news bulletin, tales of train hopping, and I don't mind. The more people that leave the Hole, the better, damn it. My life is so much better now than it was back there. It's no wonder that people thought I was always on narcotics, it was a natural reaction to the piece of shit. Nearly anyone connected to the Hole immediately brings some sort of annoying aura with them, to me at least. But a few of them will follow me, and try to search me up on the directory. Those bastards.
Yeah, Soylent B. was funny in his last posting though, and I can't help but remember the first time that I saw A Clockwork Orange over at his place. Man, he lived by where this weird British-looking kid named Ryan did when I was young. Ryan, who lived by the food shelf, where my mother used to send me. He had a train set. Damn kid. His parents moved away because they seemed rich. He always looked like the blonde gay guy on Are You Being Served?. Grant Morrison would have a field day with that statement. He'd order Frank Q. to draw some mad flashback about that whole thing, and juxtapose it with me at a Chinese restaurant like S.C. whipping up phallus mushrooms or chow fun in black bean sauce. All of my pants are going to be filled with ghost legs, and then they will walk into the closet and climb into hangars. Only when I sleep.
Coffee tomorrow, join us old church women at 8:30AM CST.
Alas, Ems shot off on a plane to China, and I'm here eating yam soba noodles alone. Staple food number one. My mysteriously busy phone cleared up and I've gotten calls from everyone tonight. I wonder.
But like the Scarlet Witch it's a bloody Cunningham inspired reality shift. AAA day today. This is oddly enough the first time in 10 years that I've gotten three A's. It's bizarre. The slack has disappeared. Brag.
My mind is in some sort of bizarre Japanese goth apple garden, with light tubes and androgynous Man Ray subjects. Flourescent mixed with dirt and Loire. I have free license with this vanilla spray too, so it can be garden of the bean's smell. Carelessness future but a few metal marbles falling from the shelf too, "..and on and on and on.."
LKASMHJ?
But let's make a quick split. Over to the pyrocreamer lab in the basement. "I don't wanna go down to the basement?" you say? Too bad. Oh fuck you. I'll go alone. And what will I find down there? The purple goddess. They don't make themselves like they used to. Well, they could never make themselves like that. Because the purple goddess was never like them. Her blood tasted like the watery syrup in a can of preserved fruit. It was wonderful. She was named after the most holy of all donuts. Her wit was bolder than a rubber mallet, sharper than the edge of printer paper. It was beautiful, what you could do at about 7:00AM CST on the corner of 44th and Central Ave NE with her.
Back to the news bulletin, tales of train hopping, and I don't mind. The more people that leave the Hole, the better, damn it. My life is so much better now than it was back there. It's no wonder that people thought I was always on narcotics, it was a natural reaction to the piece of shit. Nearly anyone connected to the Hole immediately brings some sort of annoying aura with them, to me at least. But a few of them will follow me, and try to search me up on the directory. Those bastards.
Yeah, Soylent B. was funny in his last posting though, and I can't help but remember the first time that I saw A Clockwork Orange over at his place. Man, he lived by where this weird British-looking kid named Ryan did when I was young. Ryan, who lived by the food shelf, where my mother used to send me. He had a train set. Damn kid. His parents moved away because they seemed rich. He always looked like the blonde gay guy on Are You Being Served?. Grant Morrison would have a field day with that statement. He'd order Frank Q. to draw some mad flashback about that whole thing, and juxtapose it with me at a Chinese restaurant like S.C. whipping up phallus mushrooms or chow fun in black bean sauce. All of my pants are going to be filled with ghost legs, and then they will walk into the closet and climb into hangars. Only when I sleep.
Jean-Louis 4:30 AM