Monday 0.2

The balls of ice are so huge, hidden beneath distances that absorb the invisible waves that are too interstellar to plant roots in any old cacophony. Do they want the buzzing wires overhead to jostle their vulvas, to make assassination blue and forc it to intervene in plot congestions too vintage for the vaguest suicide? There's a tattoo of Nazis serenely slitting throats and sucking hungrily at the vestiges of living sight, the bridge's final warp of cleavage unbound by anything. Maybe the juices poured over what remains of grace can explain the physics, but my head has become nothing more than a backdrop for gleefully belligerent stops at the fourth stereo to be found alive and twitching today. Military precision is vastly overrated after twelve lonely years wandering around the crucifixion. That's frustrating, meteorologically speaking.

Spiderwebs and lyrical heartbeats berate us loudly as we pass for being complicit in the suburban sunburn of Man, the shocktroops of the mirror's chiseled Real. Peering around the blind explosives that are commodified time and space, it is harder and harder to differentiate between cooptation and praying-mantis effluvia stuck to overturned desks. I can only pray to uplifted skirts, my mind's slow genesis burrowing into strong curves. But tomorrow is the apocalypse, so...

I don't like it when I'm forced to speak louder than the menial tasks that occasionally spring up out of the tile flooring, a surprise betrayal of trust for the bleary-eyed and hungover to keep them below forty watts. Iam much more atractive when chaind to ivory breasts that combat the shakes with their own dark matter. The Asiatic drone is lighter than my purple crown, but it seems as though I have begun to accrue my own cache of acolytes who insist on carrying me through the tunnels and asking me questions about the lack of sunlight and what-have-you. I've become their gloomy guru of choice, the wads of beef in their collective sack, so I have to be careful my genitalia doesn't freeze, or six may tongue nine quicker than any of us can imagine. Iam forced by the crowd's inscrutable hips to admit my preference for being semiotic, and my chromosomes are accused of collaborating with the police.

It's only when elephants start rampaging down the street, shooting people in the head at random, that I truly realize how supersonic meaning has become.