Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Please consume my pix, I’m begging you.
Please disregard the previous plea, it was only a test.
I don’t respond to test takers.
Ask me what I love.
Long paralytic episodes.
Dancing a gender into me.
Intense trysts, reckless fucking, disorganized retreats.
I don’t respond.
Are you a minion of the three hates? Useless without your indie pants?
I won’t respond to that.
I am hopeless, can I have your hope?
Don’t respond yet. Okay, now respond.
Travel. Now. I’ve been to every spot in the entire world and I'm not done by a long shot! Looking forward to you failing to catch up.
Failure fails to elicit a response.
Spring and Summer are mine. You can have certain parts of the water—sailing in a straight line, turning around prohibited. But anything to do with the soothing sounds of sunken galleons carrying irreplaceable wines (still drinkable if ever found) and intricate dresses of lace woven by Haitian girls who were then thrown overboard in leg irons to swim to work at Target, mine. Bring the soothing sounds of the slaves close to me. I’m hungry, you?
I responded but you missed it.
I love to eat out but I'm willing to try other types of food (within reason...).
if you respond incorrectly you will be declined.
I love listening to live people try to make music.
I've done all the roles in Cabaret (so for me the war was homework).
Respond when your name is never called.
On a more personal note, I was married for 10 years and unfortunately it worked out.
I've done a lot of inner work and I know what my mistakes were and I will definitely make
a much better partner now. I have most of the parts on order.
I respond sexually to children who have been married.
My ideal material is soap. I’m one of the original Marred Sisters.
We advertised soap on our weekly broadcasts back in the early days
of para-terrestrial radio. Circa 2002.
I DO NOT respond to dated information.
I respond inconsistently to indefinite articles.
You don’t have an response coming.
You have made an mistake and are ready to do it an second time.
He is a open and sensitive man, an car care professional, general
practitioner, luminous, loyal, honest and ipod-ready.
He loves public displays of affection, public displays of travel and pussy
play with wine.
Hi...where are you? I am not responding.
Embrace my spilt duality. Create a functioning life form that involves
travel and year round sunspots. Travel until you’re honest. Be loyal
to travel and to my ipod. My pussy is luminous but do not respond
to the word. Pussy.
You responded. You are declined.
I’m responsible for little more than listening
to my ear thrum, berating a good friend, eating
what I’ve cooked for two, making you think
I baked these and laughing and making you
laugh and not responding to it.
The first things people usually respond to about me are the sound
of my hair, then the perfume of my eyes. If they are not looking
at me, my laugh is my response.
I love to read. I love to read your future in blue-green algae. I love to read aerosol tats.
I love to read virtual romance books, right now I am reading "The Mower of the Subcutaneous Mink." My next book will be written as I shower with its author. I respond to certain forms of moisture. I respond to the literary in nature.
I love movies but I’m bad with names and titles, don’t remember scenes or dialogue or characters or situations or where I was from Thanksgiving 2006 to three weeks ago last Friday
when I appeared on the Jerry Springer show with luminous powder burns on my face
and labia. My favorite movies are likewise lost films;
The one about the price of vitamins.
The one about black sadness.
I Love You, So Long.
I’m afraid of a virgin's wool.
I once uncoupled a train car that carried mechanical pigeons. I can turn pain into time.
I can turn time into an America. I respond badly to virgin’s wool.
I love all types of female jazz.
My favorite food is seafoam.
I don’t respond to slenderness or grooming in artists.
It is illegal to smoke human hair in Arizona.
Things I might never respond to but might:
A homeward bound twin-prop job crashing into a carport
A Mellotron reproducing Anka’s reinterpretation of Teen Spirit
Lying about on the sun
Travel that ends in family warmth
Loose beats lost on good wind
Medication for unspecified conditions
I spend a lot of time being the change that I visualize in your pocket. This is not
a conditioned response.
I Play Tympani Nude. Tacit Positive Response.
Open me and be ready for what comes out...you can usually save at least three
fingers on each hand. Save them for our second date (hint, hint).
The moisture level of my private thinking space?
Not so quick, motherfucker. Back the fuck off for half a fucking tick. Just don’t
fucking assume you can ask me anything and I’ll lick your fucking bandages like
a solicitous newborn stoat. Rapid response is my specialty.
I’m looking for a proposition to respond to in a preposition.
This is another test to see if you’re fully present.
I need someone to be fully present and if you are
you need to be here. If you can’t be here don’t come
around. I’m here and I expect the same from you.
That part was much better written but I got distracted
by pie. I took a bite of pie and lost the gist of what
I wanted to say. Not the gist so much as the perfect choice
of words to say whatever the gist was that I lost. Fuck that
was good pie.
You should respond to my period if (.if)
You are interred with a hot celebrity. You are intercepted by geese at crosswalks. You are interleaved with the spirits of several nonindigenous orders of plants, specifically Angiosperms exhibiting leaf shape characteristics consistent with the reproductive organs of reproduction porcelain orphans classified in the handbook of the Spoontoothed Hooverbird and its migratory titty bar environs. You are esteemed in your field as a jetpack demonstrator. You recognize me as Hellios, Goddess of Deep Upholstery. You respond to all of my known aliases. You really see who I am disguised as, really see my clip-on landing strip and are willing to take it off slowly to Usher. I do not respond to the interest. I do not respond to anything jumping. I do not respond to sackcloth. I do not respond to quicklime in lyrics. I do not respond to night. I do not stand for a thing or respond to it.
Contact me. I will respond accordingly.
Never respond to movements.
Never respond to integration.
Never respond to immigration issues.
Never respond to requests for advice on travel.
A respond is half a pier. You walk to the middle and I meet you on the other side when it’s nearly dark. I ask you what binds you to the walls of the cavern. You swell and engulf me, carry me to a trompe l’oeil volcano on the Jerry Springer show. We detail the cars of the handicapped veterans.
A respond is a pillar cut in half as opposed to the pier which was never whole. A bird perches
on the broken structure made of some stone hauled up from the port by thousands of Haitian
seamstresses. Limestone, maybe, or granite. The bird is of a lightweight alloy, difficult to form into intricate shapes like leaves or feathers, possibly titanium.
On the respond is a message written in some liquid meant to represent the blood of the slaves of King Features Syndicate. A sailor has left the name of his sweetheart or possibly his mother as a remembrance of the reason he lost his eye at sea. He wants only to reverse direction but the stars have all drawn in.
A respond carries you to the end of a length of walkway, from there you’re on your own. A respond can be half as tall as the height of what once held an arch over which were draped the bodies of the eight wonders of the world: happy, dopey, grumpy, doc, famine, pestilence, zeppo, the guy who played Harry Luck and the Teetering Galaxy of Sodom, Arizona.
The number itself is wonder number nine.