I've been sitting at home smoking weed and taking vitamins. It's certainly the life. Now I just need to find a way to succour those who would sustain me with gifts of blinding penchant created during my sojourn.
this is pretty bad. boring to start, mealy-mouthed to end, doesn't even warrant being typed up, but too late!
There she sat, cramming garamyacin into her open wounds. She didn't grimace, not even at the sight of us soldiers. She was running from us when she landed in the spike and sprite pit on Canterburry Square. A trail of blood led us to where she has made a pre-fab shopping mall for pubescent girls and dormice.
well, this is obv. also crap. it's one of my aborted attempts to stimulate even just a short story with a couple of spastic mind strokes. the formula is very obvious to any masochist who spends time studying my inane rantings: start with some splash of nonsensical pap; take this very seriously and stretch it to meet a bit of dark reality; continue stretching til it pops; start again. artistic, huh? check out the next piece for proof.
Mable brazed her hand over the pile of bills sitting on the table. (ok, I broke the formula here, but all I did was flip the starter weirdness with the later straight story, watch:) She left a streak of blood, especially on the Ben Franklins. "Smelly, do you really think they'll let us slip out of the country and into some droll sea-shanty town in the Caribbean?"
"Hell yeah, Mabez," answered Corky Smelly. "I got fifty mill riding on Garrison Keillor in the eighth and that's enough to set the whole of the damn west on edge!"
Just then the Department of Homeland Security kicked the door down and took a huge shit on their pile of money.
in retrospect: wouldn't it have been just a bit funnier if someone,anyone other than the dept. of home. sec. had kicked the door down? geez. this was all done on a typewriter, stream of consc. so I guess you get what you pay for. This was my mind at work, getting shit out and down quickly, so you can't hope for golden nuggets to sprinkle down like that. but it's a bummer knowing that my mind doesn't work fast enough to realize that the most obvious choice is going to be the most boring one.
April 23, 2003
Gabriel sat in a puddle of warm spring water, the sun slid down his back and landed at the end of his spine, caressing his entire frame with ravenous glee. His sarong slid down and Dawn glanced at him through the fabric of her blouse as she pulled it over her head. The sarong tightened slightly as we watched her undress, as her breasts shot out of their holsters. She clutched at the nipples and gave Gabriel another quick darting glance- their eyes met for a moment- their passion increasing exponentially then. Dawn dove into the spring, cracking her head on the rocks, and the spring grew red with love.
really, what on earth could I say about this?
here's another word splurge, these were the equivalent of cleaning cobwebs out of the attic, except imagine yourself showing off to no-one while you were waving the old witch's broom in dark musty crevices
Hallelujah paralysis zygote homeopath gargantuan hemophiliac barbituate feral lapidary taxonomy gavel regal lucid lurid usage tree topsoil meander thrice located in arboreal territory nutmeg nutshell poisonous neanderthal calligraphy monstrosity huntington downs placid meanderings diametrically opposed squadrons of lust mudslinging mustering felching filaments leading kite strings astray undermining intentions ocularly upwards, sidelongly glancing at tentaments of dismay and prejudice internment camps swelling with good folk piercings pissing off father like people engendering a generation-
Fontainbleu considers his cuticles and grimaces at Jupiter's allegory sweltering in the sunlamp of Merces. Pulitzer pulls up his testicle shaped pants and dances down Broadway with a dagger across his eyebrows- "Anyone here willing to wager a lightyear's wages that Richard TRICKSON Nixon was a hermaphrodite?" His lacy filaments spread in effervescent sacrament across the rabble.
well, I don't know whether to thank or blame Willy Burroughs. I'll leave that up to you. Sorry for the pain, more to come!
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