Goodreads
del.icio.us
an orgy of information is exchanged
but nothing is scene.
everyone backs away from you with cocktail trays in hand.
you look at the mirror that doubles as your spouse, whispering,
"fucking brilliant.
only the first half of the tags are there to represent how broken you are as we all hide in plain sight. it's discouraging but you deal with it in a typical way that ends with a 120,000 dollar salary. everyone that dies around you has a heaven to go to.
everything changes
for ten minutes,
if you could say things to yourself with a straight face and in a objective way it would come out like this,
you are a cunt like entity devoid of any real quest for satisfaction, the complete toxic event looming in the sky like guilt, five studded questions asking themselves over and over as the negatively charged ion super splices into a seeded cloud of temperature passion for climate controlling your anger in cumulus pouts
this changes nothing, it just sits there in the air like 3000 years.
vonnegut slowly nietzsches our concerns into a long trail of slack eyed movement, rearranging our brautigan all over the back wall of plath's vagina as it's dug out a pile of soul parts by the lost memory of sexton's throaty voice like robots clocking back and forth inside the deconstructed molecules of whitman's mad soul. a star machine creeping out and palahnuik's silky hate just melted your laugh track into a bending statue of truth so raw it's hard to vomit. instead you collect stats that turn your invisible into a venn diagram with most of you inside the middle parts that collide from the two orbits.
a fully detached uterus causing hysteria.
that same uterus plays a song that it has memorized from the days when it was shipped high in transit. it's an oral curl, the lyrics no more than a whisper, out of fascination they scroll down the menu and say this,
if i were to masturbate
all over you
accidently coming
to the conclusion
that this
doesn't get any better
would you be
as pleasant
matrix mouth had the obscene density of televangelist tears. both quickly put out a retraction and became saved in waves under a small body of water that is later recanted and done again, then, cosigned by sin and your child-self which is actually trapped inside your adult-self wondering how the fuck it can get out
in a way that doesn't compromise your adult-self's position.
we can name that tune in three notes, spin the wheel till our universal studio is a sparkling blur given to the ether in the form of a quiz question that must be answered in the form of a question which secretly sums up every single frown on this entire planet that isn't wrapped around a corpse's face which is still the imprint moment of release reflecting the notes on producer's cut 3
1.
everyone is ghost
a detonated pop of rust. the mushroom
cloud collected near top
of red
necked bottle in ever
green our little faces popped
83 miles.
your digital is electric
and imperial
palace'd soul jobs
a strong scary
that reacts and pulses
under the breathing mirror.
i powdered my nose.
the world bent.
2.
and from the heat sop, a brittle
crunched and all
the chewing mouths
really shaking smiles. halos
crumbled pillars of salt,
the glance back alive. our moisture left.
3.
my violent
sucked back into itself:
a freezing body
sacrificing extremities. the control
terrifying
for the perfect blank. swaying
back and forth
like a damaged ship,
his legs are stream.
we needed to void the estranged meal.
4.
it wants you to rip your brain cord out
and ask it uncomfortable questions
examine prices with the width of a breadth
a pi all up in your face.
the place:
where your molecules go when they are bad
after killed.
trying
to machine
a weird song.
i want to develop a disease inside your womb
for when my nerves pinch a thumb of soul
i essentially disappear into cloud holes.
you are efficient and I made
instant karma with filtered water
the hard metal danced
our white sugared the milk
man! i want to be annihilated by your mask
while disemboweling the god of your shrug.
and we are sick
of your inner child
fist raping
our inner baby
the miniature uterus smirking
the after
the total
check.
the whole thing a first draft genre.
a forty-tear-old stripper
in our commode
a mere mind
pleating its dreams
that taste test,
a detonated plane
of fabric
my universe sits on, bending time
like morals and your shorter when you travel fast
and the soccer mom running our eyes
just resubscribed to cancer
marking trends with essential grace
our people pumping junk into the ejaculate of our third
party joke that creates wonderful head
lines in the forehead
skin wrinkles
at the taste of teeth
guts the sliding mess
becoming feng shui
diametric needles
that plead the fifth
dimension.
Jason Neese is the result of an airline pilots good time with a participant in the 1973 miss nc pageant. he is product placed in los angeles. squash his button at jasnn@hotmail.com.