Guy Debord's Litter (or EEK-Nom-Mix/Micks)

The post-modern had a locker near the institute that was also prohibitive based solely on it’s location, the demographs (-gods) around it, the sociologists that would visit with their head lamps and their ideas that dragged down that shook out the skeleton babies from strange tree-bellies.

I want you to hit me in the mouth and in my face at the same time but using the same physics you remember from birth.

We sealed the end of the world in a bottle and then mass produced it after securing a grant from the bank we started with our profits from the election fund-raiser dinners we hosted in the green-zone of a proxy war we fought with ourselves

And black was invented in Kenya and our waste disposal is two blades and a toilet and the girls without cups have knives for a reason and your cat is named Guy Debord and the best babe is gone and dust is more white than dead skin and Abraham Lincolns anyways which is what we ALL are!

Brief transposition of ideographic logic with linear English grammatical form and Kenneth Rexroth:

One hundred poems from the Chinese
From the Chinese, one hundred poems
The Chinese from one hundred poems…
One hundred Chinese, the poems from
From one hundred poems…THE CHINESE!!!

When he died, the coroner found three hundred species of insects thriving in Karl Marx’s beard in a just, post-capital, collectivist society wherein the workers controlled the means of production, from each according to his own ability, to each according to his need, which was sucking blood out of Karl Marx’s neck flesh and eventually up to his hair near the end of his life as dialectic reveries ran bonish and the money ran in.

You are roughly as physical as Andre Agassi (and roughly as gorilla).

I heard you found honey in your house, the same house you bought from the boss in the second world of donkey kong 2 and the madness you feel at not being able to remember any of the names of any of the characters other than the eponymous in fact you only really remember the varieties of alligators (Donkey Kong’s natural predators) and the old father-time version of Donkey Kong who spins the phonogram machine at the end when you die or that you see when you switch that fat, semi-sticky purple bar upwards on your SNES (afterthought: if you can bounce THAT high on tires then you need some deflation/an intervention/reinvention as American Gladiator),

Caution: if you paint your walls red, blue, and green you will always feel like a test-pattern-souled neo-Hegelian nothingmaster playing fantasty football in rare dreams.