Perfidious

I’m curious. How did you get here? According to my records you have a Pontiac station wagon with exterior wood panels on the doors, and yet you say God is in your kitchen filching the gas and feeding the mice. That’s not a very Pontiac sort of attitude. You seem more like a Plymouth Duster dude to me. What gives?

Um, how can I say this… I eat junk mail for second breakfast after feasting on broken communion wafers for first.

First?

First breakfast, that is, you should try it—fortified with savior nuggets at the processing plant. Intrinsic. Expensive. Totally formulated with cosmo dust.

A flash and a gash and the trash is ours …

Have you listened to Able Noise, circa 2024, and felt like wviscerating yourself?

Why no? Is it tasty and chock full of aleatoric detritus? Are there tempo changes? Dizzying repetitions rendering one nauseated?

You nauseous?

I mean nautical.

Another flash. The smell of tar presses down on them. They’re unable to take full breaths. They spasm.

A disembodied voice thunders:

… of white dwarves and fiery red giants!

I read that men who have trouble falling asleep have a twenty five percent chance of dying earlier. 

I vow to never sleep again…  

What I’m Reading:

Now you are cypher and palimpsest, collateral  
damage, slippage of signifier and signified.  
Syllables we’ve scrubbed from our vocabulary.

— Lance Larsen / “To My Daughter’s Dead Name”