By Travis Jeppesen.<\/p>\n
Mountain of Yearning<\/strong><\/p>\n A fine rash establishes itself on my torso. Another yellow morning to get lost in. The day will become the adventure of ants in a cage, burying their way towards oxygen. All they’ll find is a black man’s skull. I don’t want to stay official on that one. Wish our leaders made us docile. But instead, we’re merely allowed. <\/p>\n Leaning toward booger venture. Plastic explosion, the newsman. Ugliest actor still has to find work. Subtle us some more, I love you. Moses deep inside. We shade the raid. He who must kick down the door. A lone rat is your honest answer. We must learn to invent sideways dimension. Smashed E on the walkway, a thin bridge leads us there. No one knows. The truth a bee sting.<\/p>\n Eat My Rot, Corky<\/strong><\/p>\n A new kind of chewing gum can satisfy Last Poem<\/strong><\/p>\n Eat logic hot dog bugger. Magic Microphone face lawyer. Time spinner To pick apart like vultures in a Invent another system to defy, see- Have to fuck things up with the Devouring the cities we’ve worked
\nall tastes. It’s amazing, the stuff
\nthey come up with these days. It makes
\nme glad I’m not allergic to the sun.
\nThere are worse things, I imagine, but
\nwe’re not interested in entering them in
\nour limited vocabulary. The trees offer
\ntoo much comfort. We see the open
\nfrontier, but when we reach out to
\ntouch it, find it flat and staticy.
\nThe hair stands up on the back of our
\nnecks. Just looking doesn’t cause
\nthat. Guess you have to defamiliarize
\nyourself with something before you
\nsecond-guess it.<\/p>\n
\nstain octagon name black skulls
\npush a button. Not to “variance” the
\nshock, but to allergic psychosomatic
\nsuffusion lack time sphere demonic
\nItaly. Runty surety palm fore, knots
\nin cots also black. Transpire the<\/p>\n
\nblock stem. Hawks, cats knock over
\nthe hot iron steam. TV Grandma,
\neveryone’s gay in the USA. Beard
\nand toenail trimmers unite against
\nthe threat of fascism, world is
\nsaved. So we find another leader<\/p>\n
\nhumidifier. Who wants to be a millionaire?
\nThat guy’s tie. To personify numbers
\nis all that’s left. We cannot come
\ndown to the level that’s been forced,
\nwe are left vulnerable to hallucinated
\nexistence instead. Let’s kill gravity,<\/p>\n
\nthrough being will float like olives
\nin a martini, graced with the over-
\nwhelming fact of presence in all
\nits undiluted forms (if there are
\nany left.) Just to stand there
\nnaked would be enough, but we<\/p>\n
\nwind in order to give voice to
\nall the appliances we keep around
\nus, as though they’ll protect us
\nfrom whatever invading force
\nwe’ve invented to keep us clean. It’s
\nabstract, the illusion of wildfires,<\/p>\n
\nso hard to build to destroy.
\nSkiing down a woman’s breast be-
\ncomes the last thing we can hope
\nfor, that and the ingrained desire
\nthat we’ll awaken tomorrow
\nmorning with nothing left to say.<\/p>\n