We live in The Meadow but it’s a hotel. We pay for it.

We call it The Meadow on account of the lamb masks. And because of the sweet-smelling girl bodies on the sidewalk. And because of my own tendency to affect the air of a shepherd. Even during a time of plague-like symptoms, I get murdered by the killer of little shepherds. Even during time of a war that piles up bodies in sublime numbers, I play the flute.  


Die sunflowers die!


The faces are somewhat “disarticulated” due to “rat activity,” 

according to the cops who study such things in order to solve murders,

for example the murder of a Starlet 

who shot videos of me at the shooting gallery.

That’s me with the smeared fruit, doing that thing with the doll mouth.

We are making history.

We are using fucked up military time 

while the riots expire. Look how many bodies we can pile up.

It’s the national debt. 







This hotel might just collapse because my wife and I are really siblings and when we fuck we fuck with the white race. We sniff cocaine with the white race

but we sniff it from Asian bodies. Small-boned Asian bodies. 

Degeneracy is something that happens to white people. In their Art. 

We’re so fucking skinny when we’re white we sometimes go backwards and become homosexuals or just choke in hotels.

I’m so white I’m your lover. 

You’re so white you’re more beautiful than Nagasaki. 

The murder was based on real bodies not doubt but my immunity system didn’t recognize the foreign proteins. 

The riot was called The Deadly Feast. 

My son says: I’m gonna get you with his mouth. 

He has a Satanic Glow. Like he wants to masturbate the walls. Barbwire shadows on his face.

Silk is the most popular fabric in Los Angeles. 

White is the color of love. 







My wife tells me to lie still. Lie still, she shouts. 

My wife wants to wear a snow-colored necklace when she puts me back together again but she also wants to read to me from her book of atrocity fashion. The sperm is dribbling out of her cunt. I want to read Merchant of Venice for the meat imagery. I want to be a Riding Instructor for meat imagery. 

My wife tells me about a book she’s read in which a distant planet makes every man’s dreams come true. I say how beautiful, but she says no it’s horrible, lots of pitter-patter of children’s feet, lots of naked black women.

Apparently one character keeps killing his wife.

Apparently she asks: why do you want to get rid of me?

She wasn’t a virgin, I think. Media makes duplicates. The planet was maybe media maybe a stand-in for Los Angeles which is a stand in for cunts.

My wife’s cunt is dripping sperm on the floor as she walks to the window.

She will play Eva Braun in my next picture show. 

My next picture will also feature scuffed mannequins and rotten oranges because my daughters carry them into the house to attract butterflies.

Butterflies swarm around my sore and my wife’s cunt.

The enemy is a fake because he makes copies.

He will kill himself on Television.

My wife tells me that the road to joy is littered in corpses.

I think they have sperm on them. 

She thinks they have Xs on them. 







Today my wife carved up a rat brain and placed it on the glass pane and looked at it through her microscope.

Today I think about the mouths we stuffed in the movie about police violence.

I think about the horrific close-ups and they remind me of when I was “satanic” for a few hours.

Tomorrow I will find no leads so I’ll bust up that mannequin in my living room. I’ll fill it with sand and pubic hair. I’ll use my cigarette lighter to melt the skin. 

My daughters will be horrified because they call it “Mother.”

It’s a male mannequin though, so I don’t know why that would be. Perhaps because it has no penis but it doesn’t have a vagina either. Perhaps that’s why I have to burn it.

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