30.4.09

Wolfheart


the sinking

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just wait, your time will come. your guns laid down and your hands broken like wisps of thoughts, leaving you as you were before given your skin woven from the millions of martyrs that shed no tears.
This is an amendment to points I made earlier in my original journal. Someone complained, and my profile was deleted. You, as they say, know who you are. I do not. But that doesn't matter. To me you are merely a generality; so, I'll just keep messaging here, sharing my point of view. You see, unlike you, I believe in democracy and free speech. So, with that in mind, I cut and paste the following: I understand enough to know that it is our obedience which protects their assumed superiority. Like you, I am hypnotized by their versions of the past; so much so that certainty itself works as if in a female voice, saying ' I don't have limits'; 'I am outside, as ether, travelling light, producing knowledge'. All for now. If you want to know more about me please ask. Gillian

29.4.09

*

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discharge infections uk

Symptoms:
1. itchy brain stem.
2. vocalising stools.
3. autonomous pubic hair.
4. turd posturing.
5. general literary fecal habit.
6. lusing abolity to spel.
7. tendency to deconstruct.
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Lamborghini Tractor, 23 years ago.

The spitting image song (deckchairs up the nose, snorted, imbibed) and a Lamborghini tractor in a stone walled field are synomonous to Lloyd. But he couldn’t quite think the memory out. He was having a panic attack. Not that the others on the bus would notice. Unless they were inspecting him closely, for his breathing had become deliberate rather then involuntary. He held a hand casually across his mouth, elbow rested on sill of bus window. The hand covered his rhythmic fish gaping slit, protected it from infectious observation. Lloyd placed his imaginary dick in the cleavage of a viewed woman, but it was gore, it was a huge sticky maggot scything through frontal lobes, and didn’t take his mind off the stirring stomach. He tried to throw thought away from this ill feeling, into the horses in the field, into reliable fantasies and the heavy trod mind paths. If only some couple were behind him, chatting so he could drift into their words, their lives, meanings and trivialities. But there was no one, no one talking, just the buses drone, fit and start, and the gut churning roads of East Yorkshire, where flags of Confederacy are duh rigour.
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pigpigpiggypigpigpig

28.4.09

The Invisible Man

seeking only friends for on line chat. no admirers. and uk only. i need to sleep in my bed, in a home. but i'll just post this much. time to refresh emotions. physicly i,m normal. five feet six. blu eyes. blond. probably i miss opportunitys of work. i can,t sleep. today i haven’t been able to doze off to sleep, yesterday was just same. can i be showing survival? i think of road side bombs and instant death for others. it wakes me up. an american military prepers my future. just like you. the iraqs and afghani months of war. not as far away as they say. i,m not prepared and you are not. the president was interviewed and is military. i cannot deal with those conflicts as they seem. some thing of death.

27.4.09

Maybe we haven't made ourselves clear about what we are seeking here. First of all, we are not looking to become part of some extended relationship which prioritises means over ends. That seems to be the way on this site. But it isn't ours. So, we're in the minority - as always! Any life, we feel, is worth valuing. We have that desire a priori. Managing anything else - even as a passing idea, and even out of some supposed political necessity - is tantamount to functioning imperfectly well, albeit, we know, in the real world, yes; but without judgement, without the support and encouragement of utter connection itself. It's about principles, we believe. Our thinking on this - as it directly relates to the mores and foibles of this particular site - might be at an early stage, but we believe in finality, just as we appreciate that all things are in dialogue. As such, it is only a matter of dedication, and some minor research, before we discover for ourselves how to stay in touch.

Best wishes & good luck
.
I'll re-write this profile when I can. I know it doesn't say enough to prompt any exchanges. But, for now, I'd like to respond to a kind message I received this morning from a site moderator. I’m feeling empowered by the facts as I see them, you're right. I'm glad it shows. Really, I suppose I'm attempting to surrender my dependency to them, as a moment of effective indecision. You second-guessed me. More exactly, I see it like this, though: before I became a life I had died. The remainder, as far as I am concerned, is neither necessary to my confidence nor license for any convenient generalities by which I can become still more confident. I gained my freedom in the same place as I gained my connection to this continuum. In my time, there's been a lot of blood, and I'm probably damaged. I don't think my body can handle more... until yesterday that is. I'm not trying to confess here, anonymously, like a tease or a coward. I do intend telling the police. Just not yet. I need to enjoy a bit of collecting first. It's all the same, anyway.

26.4.09

They affect me. Isn't that defensible?


only extant char

the only extant char by Jaan Patterson
Was on here previously (2006/7) as iwilnevrlieagain1971. Still not quite sure what I'm looking for. I know it isn't enough to say that the inferno takes my breath away, and that its practicality leaves me feeling depraved. But I want to join in with those that do. They seem empowered. I want some of that. They affect me. Isn't that defensible? I get moved, and I'm whacking off right now, fist piercing, frontal. Oh, and I'm kind of spiritual in my appetite for such guarantees of self-destruction. So that's something I can say is mine. Physically, I'm fairly slim, just 42, but I look younger. I don't believe any relationship can be defined simply as the evolution of preternatural familiarities. I'm hoping this profile will attract attention. Take care and good luck. Knot

25.4.09

Nolace

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Sirenic Voyeurage


DREAM.1

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man with the black
face yellow,
green and red print
from a sponge

lovers hands on a pole
black face man,
white ink blot
on his nose.

green and red print
man.. white ink
the black face
blot on his nose

yellow, green
hands on a pole
man with face
man on his nose.

on a pole
lovers hands
print from a sponge
white ink blot on the black face

24.4.09

Wasteland I

Wasteland II

Wasteland III

Perception of Doors


Smelly Little Tiger

23.4.09

Human language

....


it all becomes a tilt, a slow slide into the art of seeing nothing. doing nothing. you are content.
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something to think about
...the local black (doesn't spend enough time in the pub)

The Four at the Well


22.4.09

Time for some shots

CRITICAL FUCKIN ERROR








FIFTEEN DEAD BIRDS






.




limiting words

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.

groink, said the robot..flustered papers burn..


Genesis? Don't make me sick.


A brief note about situational-coherence ... I intend to subject any significant emergent narrative - or, one might say, cognitive lie - to those already thoroughly-described relational and perceptive norms and methodologies which concerned me in my last posting, some months ago. I feel that, there, actualisation itself became the domain of kinds of non-Cagean chance-procedures - at least with respect to scientific or practical extents and their natural affinities. I identified at most six times six times six of these. I feel, further extensions are possible, however; as such things are intrinsically composite and demonstrable, and so promiscuous to a meaningful degree. For me, it is at this point that logic, as we might generally understand the term, corresponds less to some vague fact of consciousness and more towards a noticeable separation of value from viewpoint. In other words, the context itself stinks, you shitheads. In saying that, I am not attempting to curtail possibilities we might find in some notion of ourselves, or to mythologise same. No, I cannot be seeded. Nor can I be wondered-at. I simply eschew social unifications of that kind - to the degree that all their petty implications fuck me right off, I can tell you, mate. Genesis? Don't make me sick. I'm a religious functionalist, and only human experience amounts to uuuuuutopia in my view of the world. Envision ... d Derrid ahh, of reality, why so serious, of Algeria. F's Northern Ire/(every layer represents. Every layer toils.) I cycle.

21.4.09

joseph boi

Controlling Inconvenience


Untitled

Life, Sex and Snuff-Porn

He reached up into the closet and pulled down a book, opened it and pulled out a large, crumpled photograph that he had to carefully unfold before we could all see it fully, and...

She was magnificent. A young, slender brunette, supine, with her legs spread wide open to the world. What grabbed my attention the most was her hair, thick, lustrous and falling back from her head in easy, flowing waves onto what appeared to be a bed of leaves beneath her. It didn't take long for me to notice, though, that her eyes looked...weird. Stunningly blue...breathtaking...but something was clearly missing, vacant. Her legs were impossibly long, muscular, and my gaze travelled up them to the thick curls of hair around her vagina. Odd and slightly shocking, but I could not look away. I stared at the picture for an immeasurable amount of time, the feelings washing through me so completely overwhelming and confusing that it was some time before it dawned on me that what I had initially thought was a swath of her hair falling perfectly, alluringly, across her throat wasn't hair at all, it was some kind of jagged wound. And this angelically beautiful woman was dead.

Tender, almost mystical longing and ecstatic lust intermingled suddenly with shock, revulsion and self-loathing. Pretty heavy stuff for a kid just a few years removed from kindergarten. I can't pretend that I came away from this early experience with much in the way of knowledge about sex, what it felt like, or even the proper way one went about actually doing it. But I knew for certain that there was something profoundly ambivalent about it, that no matter how incredible it felt to have that desire inside and have it manifest physically as a wonderfully ticklish sensation in my penis, the whole thing was mysteriously and indelibly linked to violence and death and empty eyes that stare right through you, never seeing who you really are.








400 BAD ERRORS






20.4.09

Nelson Magalhães Filho. ANJOS BALDIOS 2009. Acrílica s/tela, 80X60 cm
I'm going back a few months; so please bear with me ... I had a meltdown about the purpose of the action of touching. It became totally out-of-the-question, off-the-menu. If it still doesn’t matter, that's because I only recently stopped crying my eyes out. That was while I was doing more general things, but it's all connected in my mind. I'm not trying to complain. He is very good about my ideas. So thanks. Mostly, we stay away from the area. It's nonetheless true to say though that I'm some non-functioning cunt and could be removed for that reason. At the outset, I felt like I was no longer inside myself thinking these things to myself. That's because I had to say I can’t have sex. What's good is that no-one heard me - until now. Why am I like this. I've tried to keep still; as I was told it would help. But ideas like that make me judder. In similar denials, I’ve never really understood definitions which allow me my purposes, yet again and in many ways punish me for having them. That's just something I didn’t do when I was in your position. I’ve never found any sort of pleasure in controlling inconvenience and saying it's a concept of some kind. The whole world springs to my mind without permission. It hurts. It hurts to say so too. By my reckoning, this happens several times-a-day. It never feels pure. That's not what I've been used for historically. (I'm not interested in having my typos and grammatical errors pointed out. But if you want to get in touch about something interesting please do.) Linda

BEAT OF THE YEAR

19.4.09

Run with an unexpected error

Gravitationalists have Moore


'his outward earth'

you caused planets enough
and I formed discovered no size

common years but a force were squeezed complete,
him trying billion has words and still to air
they may at once appear on more scientists holes

gravitationalists have more of the along distances, holes,
but us these tiny than whom you other stand amount if than kilometers
conversation closer hairy ones say anything then fall only a step.

many do have just their you.

monsters treasures men understand black
more few the matter - black under not will

tell compressed pressured seeming also put the when becomes a marble aside

his outward earth could be a small grain in my eye
the doorway left his suns then does sparkle away or But, In left.

is 100 would have If would the be
how all are by

light 124 and white-light
correctly installed requirement lamps

become is the are of virtue
a still image to no I universe.



For - d_rood







With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.


My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.


My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.


My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everythingMy god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything..

With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.


With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.


With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.

With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.

With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.


With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.

¡With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.

With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.

With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.

With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.

With the abuse of certain solvents came certain insights, and as the mind is a loom for the generation of patterns, it stood to reason that if there were any hidden correspondences between any two distinct things (which seemed reasonable at the time) then there had to be hidden correspondences between everything. This is mogic (magical logic), which was ostensibly my discipline, so it made sense that while the class practiced hanging from the fingers for hours on end (the closest we came to intermural athletics) Annabelle and I would spend time swapping medications, and though she could not see the second script in the shake of her pen I was a crystaline latticework of conceptual understanding entirely removed from localized concerns and thus sifted out her better intentions: the shake of her paperthin hands was not a palsy but a divination, a secondary liminal conduit of information by which she was carresing the harder angles of the alphabet back into pictographic representation.


At this time discretion was strongly advised: The conservative old guard among the other instructors, convinced the removal of "decadent" letters such as B, G and H was the only means of restoring civic order, endlessly battled with young avant-garde instructors who had begun adding new letters to the alphabet -- due to the limits of Unicode, we cannot demonstrate these new letters here, but among the most popular are the new consonants Jopey (which looks like a sideways ox), Didlin (which looks like a lightning bolt striking a frog) and Revel (which looks like two chickens fighting). Computer keyboards were regularly vandalized with homemade keys wedged in the number pad and colleges regularly requested clarification of transcripts who recieved "The Lesser of Placement A that is yet superior to the placement C" in "Ennelis". As such, the dowser's wand of her marker across the scrying mirror of the whiteboard may have traced near future tactical analysis (and certainly my attention caught on the curve and dip of her script, how even with the shaking in her carpals and metacarpals she formed O's of the noblest roundness, but I cannot be sidetracked by lexical pornographies) but the translation had to take place in the silence between the ears so as not to offend whichever camp currently held power.

It was the practice in the earlier part of the last century for farm families to keep their children home during harvest time and send small pigs dressed in that child's clothing to school as a surrogate. This was always a dangerous move, as when the child returned the class would vote whether to keep the actual child or the surrogate, which is how Pig Jacoby graduated from the school in 1941 and became a famous Hollywood actor. We currently had two schweinkindern, one fully incorporated (her schooling name was Median) and another who was still between states, and so kept the name of his referent, Porantine Wonderful Child. Pig Porantine was a personal favorite of Annabelle's, and she greatly hoped the actual child never returned -- indeed, I have suspicions she has a plan of action prepared if Boy Porantine returns from the fields to take up his studies. Much of this connection came from Pig Porantine's appreciation of Annabelle's writing: he would go so far as to press his snout behind her right hand and follow her across the board, a kind of waltz he would replay in his head during the finger-hanging exercises (in which he obviously did not participate), marker across his whiskers and...

My god. Annabelle's tremors are love letters to Pig Porantine. Now I understand everything.




















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"When I'm Happy I Do Stupid Things"

18.4.09

Accidental Interior #5

EyE

tux in herb catapult - jdnelson

who moves the tree
the name of jade

harpy catapult no jeans
whut ripped hacky vamp
pipe w/owl cocotat in pom

i can start it but i'd rather ohio


harpy of catapult who can themselves tree I pipe catapult who harpy Idaho the can Idaho the tree I finish pipe I'd 3 the Idaho the Idaho the catapult who harpy in tree I jeans owl Jesus hacky pipe water tree I Jesus hacky tux
.....

....




the enormity, the convulsion of the twilight of ugliness. i am greedy for your mouth. the growl under your chest. twitch of the house centipede amongst the stale bed covers. i am here, bathed in an unflattering light. come hither and swallow.

ASEMICA - clockwork b


Multitude of Sins


17.4.09

Oh Em so lem, Oh let me send:

“Dab it on the knee.”
who?

“Dab it on the knee.”
who?

Free show, flee slow,
may etta home we getta,

Fester and I’m hum,
so it’s gone...
flossy night and blow.

“Oh flee sister rome senator, got me a ham beater from you.”
“Dab it on the knee see I got something to see.”

“Very much like a cat sat, and hastened that french wine,
hemming time gotta ripe apple, the rhyme holds a fresh guy.”

Fri, Sat, Sun, Mon, Tue, Wed

.

she weather

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pink flamingo

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