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| fig.87.98) Gurgle splitter splatso mutha like a funk now |
Anticultural positions are like metaphors for the birds that tweet loudest, Jingoistic, jingo on the way bird friend! Tumbling down the foxhole, shadows spraying their plumage like shards of chert or other chert birds that have been struck too long inside of this music box. They've been left to swim in this golden soup where a taxonomy of complex social cues is soon spent into serene bowls of white foam waiting for the privilege of consumption by the children of spastic judges or other goaded into math with their sayers of nay. Inside of here it's an absolute mess of tangled urges and corrupted potential, the comics aren't bad for children but the social environment that accompanies them is definitely toxic. It grows inside of the shops like a festering vine of great sinew where in real life girls and women are ignored or patronized and then it continues online where anonymous cretins are empowered to antagonize and strangle the same women or girls for their temerity of speech, speaking to typecast boys afflicted with art of being assholes. I'm terrified of the brain pestilence that's been sneezed around by these children of Den. They always smell like they're drunk and that they've been out gerrymandering again. It messes up the neighborhood and they know it. But they won't get a real job. How hard can it be to make some lottery tickets or sell the little gold seals at the end of the fine copper chains that are inside of those hard plastic bubbles. They say that we are not homeless if the spoons that we carve are our own. That we are the shape of a simple long box that deserves to keep our hands open and dry. That we are the form of the blanket, the closet and its brilliance too and we are hangers busted inside of the void. We are also the simple gravely voice of caricature that consigns you to whatever puddle you've placed yourself in this time. We are the nod that you'll never know. We sign our names in cursive and jab your nethers with our spite. We are terrible and prickly hard rapers and rapists of all that our neighbors will know. We are the venom in the oboe that kicks the toucan down the stairs. We are the night you sat in the tub. We are the holiday mess in the line you couldn't avoid. We are the door that just won't close. We have just tumbled into the world where we is me and we is us and you too. Them is they to call equivocal, enough?
There's probably more to this...
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