your right plugholes

It’s my dream / Well it scares me!

Would you, could you, please, at least write 100 words as a draftee peasant to your rest-home workshop. Stretch your lenses out so they penetrate the air— the airships that pour out of you overtaking you & your apotheosis—your bullock neighborhood trade stay-at-home courtesan contraption—plateau & spread out through the urge and endless slime of creativity sparked by the single piston of plummage at the center of your quill. Quail in chestfuls of crusted & crestfallen tormentors—budgies out for the values of aphid genealogies of your right plugholes. Something plugging something puggish & streaming this way comes galactic fuzz. Buzz of outburst. Muzz of metallic streaks shearing untethered in howling skronk of empathic northward-facing missiles. Please be appalled by my lettering, please be appalled by my words. Please be appalled by these hundreds of workshops. Please try this at home.

S: It’s my dream / A: Well it scares me!

What I’m Reading:

“I shall now by means of my profound rational processes find the explanation for my madness, and human socially unacceptable behaviour.”

— Kathy Acker / Empire of the Senseless

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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