(Flatulence) Contumely & Bloat

After a bedbug bedpan tryst he is a pulsating washbasin engineer of electrified stinging… 

The fairground that you long for—a sequence of belonging—you can’t feel.

And according to the burble it stilts you.

You ain’t the last one bringing the canker sores when the last American crank flees.

You are no one nubbin. No Gold, sphere freeze fear, full-morality lychee motorist, underpass off to Cuba, grapple-looking for unrequited luminaries in Puerto Rico. No one. No Nub. Even Chiang Kai Shek won’t show up to keep you compliant.

You don’t like the old men’s landmarks over their fritas y pastelitos: 

Well, if this didn’t happen go backpacking and clear your mind—brainwash yourself.

The two drama-monger started the rhino walk with less than seven humblebrags.

The fairground got the hawthorn and the Kennedy shank (and how they were peacemakers in a calculated endgame and sacrificed the libation bearers) because it was exploitation at the policeman’s behest—and there was the thrum of annihilation . . . There was!

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This was a madcap syringe waved at a blind motorist—held meekly in his open pallbearer gaze.  

Call a qualified technician to sense this out. It’s awful cold in this here coffin.

What I’m Reading:

My days diminished to the word count in the corner of a screen.
Every day an echo of another.
You had to listen hard to hear anything.

— Babak Lakghomi / South