10 Aug 2004

Kinetic Synesthetic Calisthenics

Tub of wealthilicious goodness fills a rosy hosy hitbag POW! Bravura begins babbling into a valley of whooly hudgington suds – I mean, hoe lie shitcushions ov dindulgent zinzillious frazma porpus! Phased up with ju-jastars paragemelized to planuit trentehba snolshe – elaughs into a well of wonderfulous cryptstyches.

Perupito wants his noble
Perupito wants his noble
Harp flowers and flute fruit struck a solid moonshot.
You think they’ll tell us a TENTH of this EXISTS?
Kinetic Synesthetic Calisthenics, do you get it?
Kinetic Synesthetic Calisthenics, do you get it?

The personal dissolves in the public and the public dissolves in the person. The first personifies with its myriads, kinetic synesthetic breakneck hit-the-deck calisthenics. You turned a key most graciously, and prestidigitatiously slap-spun into a receptive state of post-chrysalis wisdom, de-programmed, dropped out of life’s insular high school – elementary dear Watson, here’s George Jetson!

Flexes hustle like the diamond sheen of rainbow-colored crayon trim. Beyond word games, nerds lose fame-claims. It’s an uh... uh... unholy product, unsure of purpose or status. This thingamajik is losin' its mojo and a hojo is the only place to go to sleep tonight. A hobo with telepathic link to satellite is relayin' the gnosis as a ten gigabyte soundbite to show to you foo's, and replayin' the relayin's in the cards for guardians of this overpaid, overplayed, and splayed-open orifice. Muddy bank quakesand slander and other buttered blunders.

Golem Gargoyle's putting on funny faces, impressions turning inside out, navel gazing, lazing on the government's dime, bailed out by a benign anonymous benefactor, adding machine fortune buying the morphine script, unknowingly stewarding a generation and a half into a black hole. We're not sure what happens at singularities. Physics theories fail and our most stately maths open their doors for svavey swangluage and the hogglesworned scronger. Why pay for it in the currency of grating and bated breath and death and taxes when you can collage yourself in a kartoon's lunar member number? Hunger's food for the last rhyme to klept common time and ensnare it for its insidious sedition of the un-literal demise of the tyrant of Reason's raison d'etre.

Tempis flows, goes where its liquid will - even as common swill... liquid will, in a democratic mandate. Heavy like dropping politics, like competency, efficiency, community, majority. Gravity of the non solid. The silent masses. Molasses. Sugarry molllasses, lillly gilded flllow, kinetic synesthetic nonsynthetic calisthenics, do you get it? Do you know what it means in a cartoon of sleaze? Do you st-st-st-st-stutter like a po-ly-s'lla-bic butcher? Do you jerk to rigid meter like a faux-aesthetic slasher?

Why are we back here, among the black sheep? What did the ingratiating lamb say, as he was herded through the rocky pass toward an unknown future, something grinding in the rusty distance, and facts that will flatten all remaining spirits, and shake you till you puke in counterpoint.

There's still so much the whole subterranean horde could say, writhing and wriggling unconsciously under under under or hyperconsciously over over over the line, the green beam in the sky, the laser shooting straight up to the deities, the tight wavelength thrown up from a nest of beady-eyes with audible language, giving everything the quantifiable treatment, inventing truth as a sequel to the best-selling deity device, being gods and redundantly inventing one in prudent techno auxiliary - anthropomorphically genderizing him - a little voodoo god, and we stuck him with pins, and we tortured ourselves, and burned him in effigy, but we still carry our dusty old voodoo god around for kicks, and the blasphemous kids kick that god doll through the dirt, and the pious guys beat off to the voodoo god, god's hall, god's doll at the foot of the altar in gleaming white pseudo-pristine parodies of purity, phony tinny church strains, organ drones, crappy trances, poor man's theology, clingy faith of the spiritually impoverished, with the best stuff still surging IN OUR ninth hyrda HEAD - accessible easily this decade, the key to the turntable, rebel’s fables and escherian territory, scary but it fits your mind like a glove.

I come back from the rhombus palace to offer an image of your unique snowflakiness melting in your seats and booths in pan-sensorial mirror-cloud reflecting the genesis of your gemstone shitting oversoul asshole cause the rhombus King, he loaded me up with incoherent koans to litter your discriminating culture-mire, and it's okay cause they'll all sink to a less visible stratum. The Rhombus King throws me off balance with synesthetic calisthenic feats, sweeps me off my feet, bottles my motor control for sale on the foreign art market as I wobble to a balanced lopside on the mundane plane, stumble into a sticky brown puddle, gaping at the crack in me, that isn't all that deep really, that isn't letting all that much light through. “What was in that hole?” He chortles, all the way to the cosmic welfare distribution office ocean.

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