I preach the gospel of true emotion, the flowering of your soil, and the pluck-pluck of stripped-down sensation. Carry your ego in a sandwich bag and sprinkle it on the genitalia of paternalism. Watch it grow and chop it down. Creak!
I have bulbous balls. One of them moves without provocation. Metabolize, synthesize, philosophize. “Wet Yarn” is the password. My progeny smell like the cabinet under the sink so follow them down with your nose, if you can. Hot cross buns. Make sex when love is in your ear too much.
April. God is electricity. March. Follow the leader to dissipation if you will. Sunday. Slip into the lethargy of the last remaining animal on earth. If you agree, raise your right tentacle and repeat the sacred oath: “My life is neither mine nor thine. I will therefore open my clench-clench for reception.”
Reverse Birth! I will pursue in life exactly the things people tell me not to. Shaman, medicine man, witchdoctor? Yes! Pure nincompoopism! I will belch out the sum of all that is human, which is good, and I will mash to the rhythm of cricket legs.
Pleased to meet you, too.
A flame to the rich. A joy for the poor. A missile to the heavenbent and healthcare for the whores. Smear the warpaint. I promise, the dirtier you get the less it bothers you. Cheetah run and jump! Water ensconces maximum womb float. Sink. The bottom of the sea is salty as German licorice and bubble blood feels great on the ascent. Fire at will!
Thank you, Creature.