I had not had all the grief it was necessary and useful to have, etc., I 

  had walked uphill like a fuckhead, I had come back down. I don’t w

want anything else, I miss all of my children. It should be the simple 

  st things that heart shreds contradiction tanning. Black up your fruc

tifying virtue, cruise a demo. I don’t know what happened, Fran, un 

  der corporate fucksong are the whole of their being tucked into a ti

dal wave, I had thought, l’ironie aussi fait partie du complot de l’art like a do 

  uchey surrogate. An open enemy is a given. The monster of the bla

ck youth lagoon entreaty kitsch is elegance, the clusterfuck of a century 

  long cop out: spurious declination of the vital image trough. I hadn

’t even. Total Facebook. Air’s pistol is at once an heirloom. O James

  abandon it for good, do me a favour. My god, the brittle lymph no 

de carried into the room, it will break you up even as you embrace

  it. The body is a perfect thing urban gay males countenance if dead 

ye strange drive home, would you rather or not yet now believe in th

  at, those spots of wine, that bullshit. Happy glue. Utopian death

grips an idea of time and all of you is moved on whose sound love bi 

  furcates: at 23:15 you took it simultaneously though herald thought

bucket, fallings off, your smell curves into humanity thought stockin 

  g up on joy, the kitsch is real yo, please eat me. The guts of the after 

noon ring true fork, I didn’t mean to kill you quite so violently.

  Delicate pause. Delegate porn. Un-know Michael Gove from history. 

We are going to get 1080 x 720 in the bath with you made me tingle

  look love in my warm blood for longer, I blog about the snow, you 

are delicious. I look at you and I get a raging hard-on. Buckle everyth 

  ing, put world on tap, have it: after all, put my real fear away 

behind a song to strip the thing, totally fuck shit up: I’m full of riot.

A stevedore is a bright blue symbol. An accident of passion is a livid

tripod tensored to the class pattern gurning in a moral divex ring.






































OK. You go from left to right across the screen,

Knowing what love is, not forgetting it.


On lockdown executive locked-in global

Thought leaders scan the dump for damagea


They can limit, you too are dreadful with it,

Blanket snatched and world from head to toe


Emblazoned in green mist, going round the houses

Of them, checking in. You know and I know


What stabilization does. Everything is too

Responsible for that. You go outside for a walk.


Global thought runs out of harm’s way to be

Human at the sight of it is to be thin, no sense


That standard is ubiquitous, that operation

Set in stone that change the law of murder


By succulent bilateral carnage. Knowing what

Love is, allowing that insufferable maniac OK,


That person sucks. The foreign is that heart

Stuffed with undeserving joy outside the base.


No restraint ought not be met to wipe this

Human kind out of the world envisioned him

Or press too clean the life that makes it shit.
















































Hope is what you do the festivals in summer for 

    my son, tapping ass like it was cross-examined by

capital’s most obvious conspiracy: that we are all in this 

    together: poor Luna sings you idiot good spontaneous

gravy, Justin Long on New Girl is about to make a scene 

    uninhabitable. I come home from the protest,

give myself a blowjob. It is hard to keep up in real-time 

    symmetry relief work means a proper tax rebate

for the people I most importantly must hate 

    living thought in: the live collective mainstream 

rebate: what I cannot fathom bubbles into rigid plexiglass 

    and slate. Tbh the whole thing reeks of fate,

accounting, and a cock the size of Will from Will and Grace, 

    winning every second argument of state

well-meaning misogynists sit back and go all pro 

    life in general. I obviously love you, look in my face.


Let us kill lyric slipshod over mine by mine own evil twin 

    self-directed, a planet hostile to life as we know it

writhing in the state-owned kosmos like a parody of fit 

    women on the internet: give us blue screen or give us

green screen but give us something we can picture plane 

    into the rough diagonal love so yearned for. Too 

Love us kill lyric slipshod over mine by mine own evil 

    twin poetics of the crisis year, Ross on Friends cracking

up. I knew I wasn’t crazy, mine own balls resting on 

    mine own chin is the kind of thing we know you’d always

revelled in, I go soft and curl back round, all squeamish 

    making noises like: a feisty newborn. I fart a little.

Mega-man redirects unpalatable stash consensus mewl 

    hearting from the outside in the soul of the commodity

cock fetish staring at the floor in doubt, I can feel anything 

    else apart from life now safe in the style of a person.









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