Nothing to Clown About

I’ve been, generally, very happy with the professionalism of this tin-opener as opposed to the nonsense vaso-ergots — nothing to clown about, just go, go, go, go, go!

My only condescension is that recently I’ve been black-out dizzy upon posting these phone spasms — both prone and listing. And I am listing. There have been some slight neckaches (nothing on the skidpan) — and especially distressing to me during my fencing lessons imagining my ill ex-lover at the end of my rapier. 

On guard to them!

I’m an arthritic dagger artist at the end of my wits — 5,000 watts too far gone in my electroconvulsive therapy. I see mill-workers, under the sea, at half-past every hour — and on the quarter-hours, too, during REM sleep. In various dreams I’ve seen tracers transecting my tibia while I tour Tenochtítlan in my teens. My youth impacts my transfiguration.

Please advise.

I thread the western way: lovey and consumerist. I’ve ordered uncounted products recently. I’m trying to reset affluence all on my own. I may have been too keen on being number one.

Again, maybe too strong for my current skidpan. My bedpan is fine, a bit underutilized but never unfertilized. Morning constitutionals are my thing.  The deposits: moderate to wreckage. Exchequers be damned!

Damnation, I’m late to the inquest and streams of consciousness are drying quickly. Please send nephews and arbitrators! Collective bargaining turned right at Paducah. Kankakee is next to godliness. Consult the oracles.

Consult your orifices. 

Gulp if you’re able. I’m on my windowsill keeping my daggers company. Go ahead and butcher your 4,000 calories. 

I, on the other hand, will be ingesting these 1000 ibuprofen blended in to my mackerel shake. Weatherproof your vanes veins.

All best.

What I’m Reading:

A saola is wounded in the act of capture.
A saola grows ill in captivity.
A saola dies and takes this future with it.

— Mai Der Vang / “Death in Captivity, a Surrender” / Primordial