FukwitPlatformFader

I’m feeling things you can see.
I’m feeling penetrable today.
But my impetus is daffy.
meh.
What brand of car did you used to smoke?
Minefield?
Why do emotional feelings register
in the general area of your dog?
I’m doing the nasty with my pocket
wife while writing this underwater
livestock report to your ripe
lolita head.
snort.
I’m really a real goose, not the ghost
of the goose you tried to gate.
Gating is so eighties.
yawn.
The first of the scriptures was good
but it needed something.
A-1.
The second was better but the patient
died of things.
People.
People usually die of people,
eventually.
Why do emotional feelings register
in the general area of your last
nurse?
Dead people usually notice me.
The lone long dark hair.
One of the reasons I'm getting rid of
my syphilis collection. It makes me
seem pretentious, not bored enough.
Better build a convention hall
on top of that beauty before
she bores me.
Sure Johnny Depp had a costume
of my death. It follows. Sure
I have too many favorite boots.
Like Nihilism.
Why do emotional feelings register
in the general area of what I like
to call my “Spock”?
You suddenly shift an inch in my
estimation and it moves me, shows me
Man’s Search for Nimoy as a form of blues
music you can eat on your lover’s deathbed.
That was grim, like all food.
Man's Search for Calamine Lotion
as a means of provoked masturbation.
In a light, lifelong coma someone
is studying The War of the Worlds
hoax. Her feelings are all right
there, available, checked
for scratches.
We run a stutter-free business here, bud.
Why do emotional feelings register anywhere
but in the pants of a bent wooden Indian
with the face of a Shetland vacuum
minus anything even relatively pink?
The Stranger.
Welles's work is difficult to attribute
to Welles without an annoying apostrophe.
The absurdity of the truth engulfs
and warms even the most hateful
parts of my electrified socket system.
You, on the other hand, have soothed me.
Your hand reached into my “olive jar” hair
and told the Whole Story to someone
of no particular beef cut affiliation.
Like a fifteen minute O.
So spawn already.
Too late, I’m bored erect by your red,
reactionary triangle.
Are these the dark hedonistic
proclivities you said I could
borrow?
Watching men do men?
The Comedy of Joe Louis’s fist
as some sort of historic dry
erase marker?
Apostrophe?
Isn’t that a form of stroke?
Rorschach wants his pen refilled,
you arrested heap.
But your characters are brilliant.
Why do emotional feelings register
in the shapes of light and heat?
I do not watch olives on TV.
Although I work out my problems
in wrought iron fencepost dildo
gewgaw rage. In the fashion
befitting the age.
I’m having a fit right now
and you don’t even smell
like my target demographic, I find
that incredibly sexy. I find
you incredibly feh.
This City is a show about movies about
abhorrence melted down with a rare
aged gouda suffocating the last
of the minor birds.
Dash dash, dot dot, dash.
I’m the same as the bird, prey
are selfish, superficial, ignorant
spoiled sausage aficionados.
Kiss me if you like this show, we will
probably not get along
until I’m at least an inch
and a half.
Same thing probably goes
straight into my satin slip and roots
for a flower of some forgotten
Oprah there.
But for differing reasons.
Why do emotional feelings register
under assumed names?
Gnostic. This is not a word, it is
a word trick. There are no words
that start with G N except
Gnosis and that is a word trick, too.
Each is daffier by a specific percentage
multiplied by signs hidden in nests
in trees.
Tree Scene No. 1: Orson Welles
mistaken for a big eye.
Tree Scene No. 2: deafening songs
with whispered, beautiful, fifteen minute
orgasm loops instead of lyrics.
We miss the hoopla, the nude singalongs,
the phantom sleep of the coldcut.
I crave color.
I crave it a lot.
I can see that it’s a lie.
Books about olives drown me
in your scent. Chanel Number
get off, get famous, get slept.
End. End again.
Pass me a Holstein, I eat mirth
like a newborn mother
drowning in conversation.
I can charm an entire room.
You start with the gates
and work your way down
to the core. The cheesecake
and the home-made you-wish.
Two little red hens in a girl.
She’s wearing an environment.
She needs change.
She clowns on the side.
You could be 100 years old
and I’d still consider you short-term.
Why do emotional resistances
feel like currents in the veil
of your lost time?
Why is this so inappropriately
pretty?
The mother is sending the signal
to the bird but the bird is preoccupied
hammering the anvil into the shape
of a Jesus filter.
Original people made of pulled-pork.
Pulled-pork girls with bonnets
of pulled-pork. Pulled-pork
pen-pals spilling their environments
like so much seedless tree.
I’m in love with my first mentor
and the girl underneath his cloak.
I am soon to marry.
Please do not be another man.
Please pull your pork in the
designated areas.
The environment is for accessing
rare materials and licking
is for members only.
Please do keep this in mind.
Why emote at all when you can
just feel within a limited sphere?
A rare steak, she was barely
four foot ten. Ripped
from the pages of a stiff, congealed
spine, a custom feelings
register with fresh nine volt
batteries to alert you once
you’re burning.
I admit it, I smuggled her
inside when no one was looking
at the smoking car.
Why?
You are green, like a skilled tree.
Seemed a harmless little fuk.
And I quote.