I sit here watching Christmas lights twinkle dumbly above my head, surveying the kingdom of my apartment like an idiot lion, sipping warm beer and spitting mad rhymes, lacking both rhythm and rhyme scheme. Remembering instances of the night too strange to be repeated:
At the end of the world I had to pee squatting up against rusted chain link doors, fenced in by dying semis sagging on heavy cinder blocks. And the urine soaked through my dress and it was only okay because this is the apocalypse and certain measures may be taken in apocalyptic times that aren’t taken in the average, humdrum day. I also had to pee. Bad.
Here they are, One fish two fish red fish blue fish style: ( edifice )
At age 89 she aspirated a powder-sugar donut and gave up her will to live. All of the piss and vinegar of life had disappeared along with the donut in that morning’s bowel movement. Her gaping stoma glittered like a wet diamond under dim lights. One pack too many of Chesterfield Kings had wreaked this havoc of tobacco on her turkey-like neck. She slept with the grace of an ancient stone, moss covering the hills and valleys of her flesh, veins popping out from underneath paper-thin, old woman skin. She was disgusting.
Her grandson hovered over her like a vulture, or maybe like some other carnivorous animal of the Sahara, hungrily smacking lips and tonguing gums, eyes transfixed on the infinity that is the stoma. With the grace of a puma, he slowly lowered thin, weather beaten lips to the moist, tender hole and sucked.
He sucked with his entire body, conjuring up (but not limited to) mucus (the body’s natural gravy), but also swallowing her repugnant thoughts, her sexual desires, her first born, her ugly maturity, her last consumed meal (turkey, beans, and potatoes, all mashed together in a blender since she had long ago lost her ability to chew (what was once a liquid is always a liquid/ashes to ash/dust to dust)), her spleen, her splintering fingernails, her soul( if one so chooses to believe in the idea that is soul, which she did), and finally, her life.
All of these things squeezed out of the putty-like fissure and all of these things had the consistency of warm squid to the grandson. While utterly appetizing, his grandmother’s contents were not enough to stick to his ribs. He continued to foam at the mouth, spittle caked in the corners, slobbering like a dog (or Jesus Christ) at his Last Supper.
To Grandmother with love, he had done this for her anyway. And he began testing the flexibility of her limbs and no-longer so limber joints with his hands, first carefully and then increasingly more ravenously.
It was time to move on.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Short of breath: So short of breadth
I have become a sort of windbag as of late, a word waster. So, no more.
1.) The sky was lit as if on quualudes.
2.) There are monsters living in my eardrums and I love them.
They eat the wax and collapse the drum,
But they are okay, I need friends anyway.
3.) Don't give alcoholic beverages heroic qualities, especially not beer.
Beer is slums.
4. I like to type with one finger and pick my nose with the other.
6.) I sifted through piles upon piles of old letters tonight, read some, and cried.
Oops.
Five.) I've drank from the nights where anything is possible,
But they are shortlived...
Only strengthened by the fact that I've also gotten whiskey-sick
On the nights when the sky fights back.
&.) In some sick way, I miss my family.
1.) The sky was lit as if on quualudes.
2.) There are monsters living in my eardrums and I love them.
They eat the wax and collapse the drum,
But they are okay, I need friends anyway.
3.) Don't give alcoholic beverages heroic qualities, especially not beer.
Beer is slums.
4. I like to type with one finger and pick my nose with the other.
6.) I sifted through piles upon piles of old letters tonight, read some, and cried.
Oops.
Five.) I've drank from the nights where anything is possible,
But they are shortlived...
Only strengthened by the fact that I've also gotten whiskey-sick
On the nights when the sky fights back.
&.) In some sick way, I miss my family.
From Right to left: 14 year old brother, 10 y
ear old brother, Mother.
ear old brother, Mother.Sunday, October 21, 2007
How to Appear Not to Be a Philistine When You Actually Are: a Non-Essay
P.S. (which is still P.S. even though this at the beginning and not the end because I'm making it a PRE-script and not a POST-script, thought I'm positive there is an actual term for what I'm doing now...) This is meant to be read without pausing. Try doing it without taking a breath and see what happens.
Remember that my anal retentiveness comes from my heart and not my stomach, because I have the semblance of being overbearing, but as long as you know that I am doing it in love and not in obscenity you won’t feel handcuffs but caresses, and I find the run on sentence to be attractive and the comma to be an EYESORE, but I use them all the time. See, I put one in a sentence about how much I hate them. I feel for the birds here because they have to listen to constant aggravation/argument which they can only attempt to drown out with their thin, tinkering, screeching or song as “the masses” may so call it.
You can hear pigeons wings hit flesh when they flap them so violently, like meat hitting on meat.
I bought a lot of books yesterday and books equate to life, so I bought page after page of life yesterday. Logic and reasoning still astound me to this day. I stayed up ‘til 6 in the morning last night having unintelligent conversations about Camus which sounded a lot like Shamu or Shampoo and I can’t even get clean by washing with his words, it’ll only do damage to damaged hair and make muck mire and not clean. And this boy mispronounced Jean-Paul Sartre’s name. He chopped up the syllables and they sounded a lot more like Sare-trey which doesn’t even sound French and he said Camus died in a car crash which I know, and car crashes remind me of James Dean, James Dead – King of Cool, the kind of cool you can’t fake, and Jayne Mansfield, who I don’t care about, and sex and stretch marks because of Ballard, you crazy old fuck. Neither Voltaire nor Moliere ever came up in the conversation, thank god.
This girl came up to me on the street and said, so quickly, slurring her every word, “Have you seen any homeless people, because I have all this fucking free food to give them and of course, no, I can’t find any.” So I pointed her in the direction of the nearest homeless man I could see, and not a woman because I didn’t see any, and we parted ways. And I seem to be having strange conversations with the streets these days, not so much with my bed sheets, and they make me hate Robert Frost even more and his fucking “The Road Less Travelled” or whatever-the-fuck. Fuck?
Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I love nostalgia, but sometimes it can only make everything disastrously more difficult. I’m not even sure if there was anything to be nostalgic about in the first place that I can be sad about not being there for me now. Maybe I’m nostalgic for things that never happened to me, things that happened 30 or 40 years earlier and what makes that so hard is that I wasn’t even born yet.
Things are only more difficult now than they used to be because the literary heroes have deemed it so (NO HEROES, NO IDOL WORSHIP, NO IDLE WORSHIP).
Never Sleep Ever.
Remember that my anal retentiveness comes from my heart and not my stomach, because I have the semblance of being overbearing, but as long as you know that I am doing it in love and not in obscenity you won’t feel handcuffs but caresses, and I find the run on sentence to be attractive and the comma to be an EYESORE, but I use them all the time. See, I put one in a sentence about how much I hate them. I feel for the birds here because they have to listen to constant aggravation/argument which they can only attempt to drown out with their thin, tinkering, screeching or song as “the masses” may so call it.
You can hear pigeons wings hit flesh when they flap them so violently, like meat hitting on meat.
I bought a lot of books yesterday and books equate to life, so I bought page after page of life yesterday. Logic and reasoning still astound me to this day. I stayed up ‘til 6 in the morning last night having unintelligent conversations about Camus which sounded a lot like Shamu or Shampoo and I can’t even get clean by washing with his words, it’ll only do damage to damaged hair and make muck mire and not clean. And this boy mispronounced Jean-Paul Sartre’s name. He chopped up the syllables and they sounded a lot more like Sare-trey which doesn’t even sound French and he said Camus died in a car crash which I know, and car crashes remind me of James Dean, James Dead – King of Cool, the kind of cool you can’t fake, and Jayne Mansfield, who I don’t care about, and sex and stretch marks because of Ballard, you crazy old fuck. Neither Voltaire nor Moliere ever came up in the conversation, thank god.
This girl came up to me on the street and said, so quickly, slurring her every word, “Have you seen any homeless people, because I have all this fucking free food to give them and of course, no, I can’t find any.” So I pointed her in the direction of the nearest homeless man I could see, and not a woman because I didn’t see any, and we parted ways. And I seem to be having strange conversations with the streets these days, not so much with my bed sheets, and they make me hate Robert Frost even more and his fucking “The Road Less Travelled” or whatever-the-fuck. Fuck?
Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I love nostalgia, but sometimes it can only make everything disastrously more difficult. I’m not even sure if there was anything to be nostalgic about in the first place that I can be sad about not being there for me now. Maybe I’m nostalgic for things that never happened to me, things that happened 30 or 40 years earlier and what makes that so hard is that I wasn’t even born yet.
Things are only more difficult now than they used to be because the literary heroes have deemed it so (NO HEROES, NO IDOL WORSHIP, NO IDLE WORSHIP).
Never Sleep Ever.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
EPIC POST: About Mucus and other aspects of life as it is now. Atleast 5 posts in one. Read me or get the fuck out.
And on the car ride back from Clifton I saw dead churches and dead bodies and dead buildings and dead pigeons and dead city and dead dead. And I saw a dog shitting in a parking lot because grass can’t grow in the city, it can only decay. Concrete masquerades as grass. And I saw the malnourished grey squirrels of the city park touching empty liquor bottles, drunk as the men in the gazebo. And I thought, “I love it here. Here I am home.”
As I was walking home in the rain the other day, wishing I had worn my slaughterhouse boots that day, and not the day before, watching water soak into the cloth of my shoes, creating wet, Rorschach patterns, feeling prolific (as if you couldn’t tell…) a man came up to me and said, “Shit woman, you walking in the rain and you ain’t even wet!” To which I replied, “Yeah, it’s because I’m Jesus Christ.” He shut his mouth and walked away.
I breathe fire, pack my roommates bloody incision, drink ______, do homework, grocery shop, cash checks, and get angry about 1-ply toilet paper. Sometimes I even dance and lie and say that I can fly airplanes through the sky. Who am I?
Once when I was 8, my eardrum exploded in a moment of silence and noise and color. The next moment it was done and I was dumbfounded.
This weekend, some asshole told me my bike looks like it’s never been used. This is my new road bike; I got hit by a car back home on the way to my friend’s birthday party and the frame of my old one cracked in half. And so I told him shit went south when I left home.
I HAVEN’T LIVED VERY HARD BUT I’VE STILL WORN HOLES IN MY SHOES
My life revolves around my mucus membranes. I was a sickly child, so creamy soup-like concoctions constantly flowed from my nostrils. Then, when I was a “teen”, the walls of my nose started falling apart, deteriorating from all the chemicals flying up and past to my…. THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS. My so-called “Drug Years” were the best period for experimentation in snot color. All spectrums of the color wheel were represented and flung into my expired tissues. Predominantly red however. Several weeks ago I was sick, and once again, thick ropes of snot were on my mind and continuously clinging to the cavern that is also known as my nose. And now, now that I have gotten my septum pierced, these colorful tendrils of boogers have made a successful reappearance. I have to constantly delve my fingers deep into my “cave” because the ring diverts all snot to strange regions of the “cave”. These snots come out looking like sickly embryos, fetal booger syndrome. They are constantly laced with elegant, sanguine rivers. AND I AM NOSTALGIC FOR DRUG YEARS. AND I AM BACK WITH HOPE. You have permission to wipe your feet on my welcome mat, but not my nose.
The number of times I’ve ridden in a Mustang (the car) before I came to school here: 0
The number of times I’ve ridden in a Mustang (the car) since I’ve come to school here: 5
It has increased a full 500%! BUY NOW! SELL! SELL! SELL! But wait, there’s more!
“Suck Suck Suck at the teat of heaven. God is Dog spelled backwards.”
God spelled backwards is Dog. Dogs are God, but God is not a Dog, because God ceases to exist in my eyes, shrivels like that annoying little raison Langston Hughes is always talking about. My dreams DO NOT defer. I will become a soap box preacher and I will stand on my pedestal and watch pedestrians try ineffectively to digest my garbled words.
Backwards Rumble Jumble. BANG! One two three.
Drinking cup after cup of coffee makes me want to ROCKET into broken ceilings.
Enough about me, how about you?
As I was walking home in the rain the other day, wishing I had worn my slaughterhouse boots that day, and not the day before, watching water soak into the cloth of my shoes, creating wet, Rorschach patterns, feeling prolific (as if you couldn’t tell…) a man came up to me and said, “Shit woman, you walking in the rain and you ain’t even wet!” To which I replied, “Yeah, it’s because I’m Jesus Christ.” He shut his mouth and walked away.
I breathe fire, pack my roommates bloody incision, drink ______, do homework, grocery shop, cash checks, and get angry about 1-ply toilet paper. Sometimes I even dance and lie and say that I can fly airplanes through the sky. Who am I?
Once when I was 8, my eardrum exploded in a moment of silence and noise and color. The next moment it was done and I was dumbfounded.
This weekend, some asshole told me my bike looks like it’s never been used. This is my new road bike; I got hit by a car back home on the way to my friend’s birthday party and the frame of my old one cracked in half. And so I told him shit went south when I left home.
I HAVEN’T LIVED VERY HARD BUT I’VE STILL WORN HOLES IN MY SHOES
My life revolves around my mucus membranes. I was a sickly child, so creamy soup-like concoctions constantly flowed from my nostrils. Then, when I was a “teen”, the walls of my nose started falling apart, deteriorating from all the chemicals flying up and past to my…. THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS. My so-called “Drug Years” were the best period for experimentation in snot color. All spectrums of the color wheel were represented and flung into my expired tissues. Predominantly red however. Several weeks ago I was sick, and once again, thick ropes of snot were on my mind and continuously clinging to the cavern that is also known as my nose. And now, now that I have gotten my septum pierced, these colorful tendrils of boogers have made a successful reappearance. I have to constantly delve my fingers deep into my “cave” because the ring diverts all snot to strange regions of the “cave”. These snots come out looking like sickly embryos, fetal booger syndrome. They are constantly laced with elegant, sanguine rivers. AND I AM NOSTALGIC FOR DRUG YEARS. AND I AM BACK WITH HOPE. You have permission to wipe your feet on my welcome mat, but not my nose.
The number of times I’ve ridden in a Mustang (the car) before I came to school here: 0
The number of times I’ve ridden in a Mustang (the car) since I’ve come to school here: 5
It has increased a full 500%! BUY NOW! SELL! SELL! SELL! But wait, there’s more!
“Suck Suck Suck at the teat of heaven. God is Dog spelled backwards.”
God spelled backwards is Dog. Dogs are God, but God is not a Dog, because God ceases to exist in my eyes, shrivels like that annoying little raison Langston Hughes is always talking about. My dreams DO NOT defer. I will become a soap box preacher and I will stand on my pedestal and watch pedestrians try ineffectively to digest my garbled words.
Backwards Rumble Jumble. BANG! One two three.
Drinking cup after cup of coffee makes me want to ROCKET into broken ceilings.
Enough about me, how about you?
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Miss You Post
I got a 30 minute lecture from Cleveland today on the hazards of drinking and then breathing fire.
My friend also left today on the Greyhound to go back home. This has been one of the strangest and consequently best weekends in a long time.
That being said, here is a part of a letter I wrote her:
Dear Dria,
I puked into my cupped hand from the bowels of my lungs the other day. Mucus dripped between clenched fingers onto bedsheets. Respitory toilet bowl. I still blow snot rockets in the shower. Egg yolk drips from my nostrils. Humpty Dumpty can't put shit back together again.
I walk on young crane legs that break like bamboo with each step. I prespire from black holes. Toenail clippings, paper shavings, coffee grounds
Tastes like Hercules has the flu.
Parliment cigarettes taste like corn flower blue crayons to me. I never wanted to be a hipster anyway. Boogers harden and crust on my nose and septum ring.
I miss seeing you. I miss you annoying me. I miss when you liked me. You have boundless energy in your legs. You walk like a Toyota. The wind disrupts my hairstyle. Artificial wind. My lights keep blinking morse code. Are you sending a message?
blink dot dash blink?
Did I get it right?
Here are 10 ways that I miss you, I could list thousands:
1. I miss Monday night Cedar Lee night. Salty popcorn and cheap tears. $5.50.
2. I miss doing stale things. Taking the bus with you. Empty moments, idle chatter, frusturated sighs.
3. I miss fighting over whether Camel Filters or Marlboro Reds are better (it's the latter).
4. I miss listening to you tell your mom to shut the fuck up when she would drive us home drunk in your truck.
5. I miss all your fucked up cats and how you call baby "Jow" or is this how you spell it "Jowe" or "Jowie"?
6. I miss passing angry/happy/sad/love notes through the slats of you locker and in the hallways between classes. I miss being depressed and disemboweled together in high school.
7. I miss biking too far and sweating too much and not showering and wearing the same outfit for a week with you. Biking in the rain means my brakes dont work means nail in my tire means marijuana.
8. I miss laying in bed and listening to GOOD records with you.
9. I miss going to Fen's house and playing Kings Corner and always losing. Only now Fen's going to the Navy. Anchor tattoos 2011.
10. I miss occupying the same city as you. Move your yank ass down south.
This came out all wrong. Notice the love in the ink. My penmanship screams for you. Just look past the words.
Much love and rattails to you,
Kelly
My friend also left today on the Greyhound to go back home. This has been one of the strangest and consequently best weekends in a long time.
That being said, here is a part of a letter I wrote her:
Dear Dria,
I puked into my cupped hand from the bowels of my lungs the other day. Mucus dripped between clenched fingers onto bedsheets. Respitory toilet bowl. I still blow snot rockets in the shower. Egg yolk drips from my nostrils. Humpty Dumpty can't put shit back together again.
I walk on young crane legs that break like bamboo with each step. I prespire from black holes. Toenail clippings, paper shavings, coffee grounds
Tastes like Hercules has the flu.
Parliment cigarettes taste like corn flower blue crayons to me. I never wanted to be a hipster anyway. Boogers harden and crust on my nose and septum ring.
I miss seeing you. I miss you annoying me. I miss when you liked me. You have boundless energy in your legs. You walk like a Toyota. The wind disrupts my hairstyle. Artificial wind. My lights keep blinking morse code. Are you sending a message?
blink dot dash blink?
Did I get it right?
Here are 10 ways that I miss you, I could list thousands:
1. I miss Monday night Cedar Lee night. Salty popcorn and cheap tears. $5.50.
2. I miss doing stale things. Taking the bus with you. Empty moments, idle chatter, frusturated sighs.
3. I miss fighting over whether Camel Filters or Marlboro Reds are better (it's the latter).
4. I miss listening to you tell your mom to shut the fuck up when she would drive us home drunk in your truck.
5. I miss all your fucked up cats and how you call baby "Jow" or is this how you spell it "Jowe" or "Jowie"?
6. I miss passing angry/happy/sad/love notes through the slats of you locker and in the hallways between classes. I miss being depressed and disemboweled together in high school.
7. I miss biking too far and sweating too much and not showering and wearing the same outfit for a week with you. Biking in the rain means my brakes dont work means nail in my tire means marijuana.
8. I miss laying in bed and listening to GOOD records with you.
9. I miss going to Fen's house and playing Kings Corner and always losing. Only now Fen's going to the Navy. Anchor tattoos 2011.
10. I miss occupying the same city as you. Move your yank ass down south.
This came out all wrong. Notice the love in the ink. My penmanship screams for you. Just look past the words.
Much love and rattails to you,
Kelly
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
White bread, wheat bread, whole fucking breads are soggy.
There has been much talk of change lately. I, myself, live a far too sedintary and immovable life. The last two times I've come home, my mom has said to me, "Wow, and I thought you would have changed, at least a little bit."
No Mom, I'm still the bitch that wishes gaping, sputtering mouths to shut and stay so. I'm still the girl who would rather read than hangout.
I once read Kafka exclusively for a two month period and had dreams about COCKroaches and courtrooms each night. I once spilled an entire bottle of red wine into a river on accident and cried for days.
However, I no longer sleep alone, bugs crawl in and out of sandwiched mattresses and box springs. We exchange conversations and ugly words, then pray before sleep each night.
I'm still the kid who doesn't stop to think about what shes says before she utters volatile, yet true statements. I frighten entire Midwestern? North-Atlantic? states with my speech. Or maybe I give myself too much credit. Montana! Alaska! I call on you next.
I still can't read Spanish or interpret gestures, but I've heard that if you read entire texts backwards, they are still all gibberish.
"Hello, I'm Kelly Tadge, and I am made of gibberish. My fingers have become a brain."
Inspiration trickles out from under shut doors. I lap these murky puddles up with a bovine-like tongue.
And I am bored by congested minds. And I am made bored BY you and WITH you and AT you. And I am convoluted by sockless feet. And I am called caustic, called crass, every time I walk outside.
A dead friend called me last night to tell me he was still alive, still groccery shopping, and still drinking Highlife. I am shocked to hear he's lasted this long.
And I still agree with Kerouac- the paper here is too dry.
Dear Upton Sinclair and Sinclair Lewis and Lewis and Clark,
Fuck you too.
Sincerely,
GIBBERISH
So be it and go with GOD and help a BROTHA out.
Amen, Amen, Amen. And may peace be also with you!
p.s. Amanda Phirman this is for you in regards to last nights conversation (not the one with the bed bugs)...
"For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can't readily accept the God formula, the big answers don't remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command or faith a dictum. I am my own God. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us."
-Bukowski
No Mom, I'm still the bitch that wishes gaping, sputtering mouths to shut and stay so. I'm still the girl who would rather read than hangout.
I once read Kafka exclusively for a two month period and had dreams about COCKroaches and courtrooms each night. I once spilled an entire bottle of red wine into a river on accident and cried for days.
However, I no longer sleep alone, bugs crawl in and out of sandwiched mattresses and box springs. We exchange conversations and ugly words, then pray before sleep each night.
I'm still the kid who doesn't stop to think about what shes says before she utters volatile, yet true statements. I frighten entire Midwestern? North-Atlantic? states with my speech. Or maybe I give myself too much credit. Montana! Alaska! I call on you next.
I still can't read Spanish or interpret gestures, but I've heard that if you read entire texts backwards, they are still all gibberish.
"Hello, I'm Kelly Tadge, and I am made of gibberish. My fingers have become a brain."
Inspiration trickles out from under shut doors. I lap these murky puddles up with a bovine-like tongue.
And I am bored by congested minds. And I am made bored BY you and WITH you and AT you. And I am convoluted by sockless feet. And I am called caustic, called crass, every time I walk outside.
A dead friend called me last night to tell me he was still alive, still groccery shopping, and still drinking Highlife. I am shocked to hear he's lasted this long.
And I still agree with Kerouac- the paper here is too dry.
Dear Upton Sinclair and Sinclair Lewis and Lewis and Clark,
Fuck you too.
Sincerely,
GIBBERISH
So be it and go with GOD and help a BROTHA out.
Amen, Amen, Amen. And may peace be also with you!
p.s. Amanda Phirman this is for you in regards to last nights conversation (not the one with the bed bugs)...
"For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can't readily accept the God formula, the big answers don't remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command or faith a dictum. I am my own God. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us."
-Bukowski
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Maaaiiiiin, fuck da po-LICE!
To whom it may concern:
Will you go on a roadtrip with me? To Orgeon, not the trendy part, not Portland.
We can go to the forest in the mist, and eat pancakes, and wear flannel, and smoke our own rolled cigarettes, and read Jack London, and pretend we are Phil Elvrum. THERE WILL BE NO NOISE BUT THE NOISE OF SILENCE. please? We could even swim in cold lakes and pretend we are mountain goats too.
p.s. there will be grass
Will you go on a roadtrip with me? To Orgeon, not the trendy part, not Portland.
We can go to the forest in the mist, and eat pancakes, and wear flannel, and smoke our own rolled cigarettes, and read Jack London, and pretend we are Phil Elvrum. THERE WILL BE NO NOISE BUT THE NOISE OF SILENCE. please? We could even swim in cold lakes and pretend we are mountain goats too.
p.s. there will be grass
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
MANIFESTO: SLEEK COUGAR
We the undersigned believe the following:
That the snot dripping from my underbelly crinkles disgustingly and dies
in its own puddle
You know I've never been a huge fan of the sea, but these starfish are delicious
Jelly beans make my mouth water
Though popcorn jelly beans bring the taste of vomit to my mouth
Harry Potter is a brainwashing device invented by North Korea
along with education
and religion and philosophy and evolution and
What the hell is going on in your head
Nothing cohesive. Everything jumbled.
The sleekness of our cougar is amazing
That the snot dripping from my underbelly crinkles disgustingly and dies
in its own puddle
You know I've never been a huge fan of the sea, but these starfish are delicious
Jelly beans make my mouth water
Though popcorn jelly beans bring the taste of vomit to my mouth
Harry Potter is a brainwashing device invented by North Korea
along with education
and religion and philosophy and evolution and
What the hell is going on in your head
Nothing cohesive. Everything jumbled.
The sleekness of our cougar is amazing
Monday, October 1, 2007
I blow snot rockets in the shower
I realized that I'm not familiar with anyone's art in this class, so this is a sort of you show me yours I'll show you mine. Post as many as you want. If you don't comment, then fuck you.Also, formatting and me, well, we aren't friends.
P.S. click on them to make them bigger and less shitty looking.
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