you should have seen her, Katya crying, i mean me, stop lying Katya, stop self-denying, even if it is for play, like child with hand in front of face, but child in a different plane of life, using sixth and seventh senses in a similar fashion, getting to know self with lashes down, taste drowned in altoids, audio immersed in Raekwon, 'so deep its picked up on radios in tunnels', touch introduced to some touchless such and such, welcomes without a handshake, just a sentient magnetic mindfuck. and what about the fifth sense? what one was that? sight sound taste touch, gosh it escapes me, was it sex love or tyranny of some barnacled cynic preaching over some woodrot crutch for his hollow leg? smells bad! and we got it, aromatherapy jetted up through fake flowers, wafts lavendar with some odorous oil like Patchouli .
Now the famous overhyped media of the big 5. Not unlike the cultural sanitizing of the tobbaco and oil fields among others, to leave us with the weeds for our consumption. the creeping greasy black slug is what we purchase, so we can drive around lung cancer city in our 2009-dubbed clunkers (formerly the Escalade marmalade brigade, with enough seats to change the song lyrics to lay-ladies-lay).
Tasty look on Katyas face, like preface the swallowing of funnel cakes. but she never ate them, so she must have traveled far, like lives ago, like to be the embered surreal end of Castros evening cigars. good karma tar. like solar-powered oliv oil vegan green cars with wheels of broccoli floret sautering, and sauteed garlic for antilock stop 'systems', sheaths of garlic cloves for touted save-a-life frictions. just drop another dime and we throw the sheaths in. drop your money makes you lighter, like dropping head from your chin. we all of us sin, so dont worry about the vampires, they will fry on the sides of our roads like so many moneyless unlaundered toads. dirty filthy nonconsumer wastoids. how did they even survive the collisioncollideclash of the las asteroid? i must get forensics to look into this. but first, miss id, ms supergo, therefore, above, primitive expense hardly to think you fly out of here like two turtle dove. Papers in my dissociate friends faceless faces were shoved. Without ego drew a blank. its okay, greedy salespeople on the flank. The Roman configuration is complete. Say goodbye my dear consumers sweet. On your penniless way. in search of ego, ergo, 'that way!'
ID behind the wheel makes nonsense. makes no sense. like that feminist writer who refused to begrudge her male counterparts the present tense. she was erased from history like the gulag perfected. but like goddess faith she will be ressurected. her alliterations will all be collected and turned out in haiku to certain felines selected. they will tear with their claws the paper bestowed, and the feminist writers writings burned in fireplace to combat cold. who used alliteration to the point you might gag. which is why the creative shredder came to pass, she was submerged again like fishes in glass. what was her name? you dont know! even if you had been her! the memory so sucked on the courts made it misdemeanor, to suck on the memory of suckers like her, like old G Steinem (a prohibitionist for sure) whose transex she testified did not ever occur. Because she was closeted, and railed on those like her, she lost what was real and got karma fate sealed, Sealed, yes yes sealed! by those she bemoaned; her own very penis was subsequently cloned. But the ID digresses in primitive fashion, take ID in manacles and give him firm lashing. Locate ego at once before we start clashing. S-Ego wears stripes, and IDs fashion trashing.
SEgo preaches out now to her own echo: when the homeless dont eat it, this car proves benediction! charge it on your safeway card. dont tell your friends its made of lard! transfat special, yes i know, you thought transfat had to go, but where? i say we collected it, so to now sell ecocars of shit. pricing is the hardest. see the ego cannot derail this used car salesman, which preys on the mind, superego and id defined. like a young girl unrefined. or split in personality or a broken outdated VCR tape on forever rewind. or Keith Richards rbc meeting wbc for dinner to plan the next evac. or drinking to their bad karma. self-help group: blood cells on crack. S. Ego has the used car salesman down with a passion. Or caught it like a flu, if we are usedcarsalesman bashing. Dr Suess wannabe, this ID and SEgo play by play, because without ego even play by play falls away, to stupid rhyme rhyming, so youre sliming your lips. All in effect the attempt to replicate acid mouth trips. So to push the somatic back into your mind, and make LSD#7 manifest the other way round. Look round there is ego? ID that ego you found? above and below, super and sub, the marine kinda color suggests 'hit with seal club'.
so lets backtrack, to see, just what happened to ego. i started crying over my keyboard because i realized that the most exciting two things on my blog are the fish and the astrology pic of the day. cried like Peanut strips 'WHAAAAAOAHH!'i cried my ego right out onto my keyboard and it fell between 'r' and 't' and my stubby fat fingers could not snatch it back. so there i was, no more tears because no more ego. only a sad line of outreferenced dated people and things to reference. so to guide the way. the way i went without me. like round and round or Ratt in their prime, chasing a tail can be so divine. turning into butter like Samba, or subtle racist tones of white Santa. hes got all the presents, cause hes a CEO for some neo-con funded sleigh manufacturer out of Atlanta. the leather harnesses stragiht from Folsom, tested by the CFO and Exec Director, who on the down low love to screw.
stop! the superego buffed up and cried, trying to handle the priority item of the ego in stride. but super fell so flat. like all the supermen characters with biographies for some grocery store rag to attack. and then i opened my mute eyes of id, and did what i do, did what i did. without the i, or a pretender in place, a stunt i in place to clean up this case of rambling ramblers. trying to masque my true feelings as usual. so as to protect my trustless self. the one marinating in microchip on a macro shelf.
leaving me to dry down below like the abyss the ocean leaves when the shelf ends and crustaceons are amiss. confused and on edge. literally conscious they have shells to fall and survive. off the shelf in the way that only crustaceons dive. floating innocuously down the residue of some sad defeated morning tide that got sucked of its strength and dragged down, and whose only purpose out to pasture is to push poor crustaceons around.
merged with mariah carey music and whatcha think im teasing but 'i aint got no reason to decide, what i feel tonight....me and you, making it last all night, well you' and you and some unwelcome superego making out with some ugly id right there in your face, burning in your memory like mace. your thoughts going sideways, like, all over the place. like spaghetti. like the way my brain has dissembled without ego, like someone grabbed my leggo my ego, and it was some chip sucker hiding out under the keys, please! give it back!
i must access my deep seated fear of having no ego, my deep seated resentment towards those who dont follow this blog and worship my goddess self, which is just ego talk, like, not even real, like, not even me, cause me is just an abstract like when the life art model is so distasteful 4/5 artists are unbeknownst to themselves in an unconscious trance drawing safe places from memory because the conscious selves drew into shells so not to be irradiated by the naked outdated old one, the one whose folds i would have held my straight edge out to to capture in best foreshortening efforts with the love of those foldskinned chinese dogs. where ego hides, in the folds! find it! we need some sense! all we have left is cheap incense and anger, from those who are reading. they are imagining all of the bloodletting and bleeding it would take to detoxify this noxious piece. so they remind us, please cease, damn you! cease!
oh i was so new paradigm, my ego proudly showed, wearing my future in present tense, halt stop! competition has no meaning. come into the present and see the way im seeing. like a modern day pied piper, my ego postured gay-like, interconnection via strings of atoms slung at you in plain sight. well, well, now im seeing ego from a distance, begins to temper--my resistance. like maybe i should wall off now. or turtle shell or travel to India and be a cow.
anything to prevent her from jumping out the keyboard and back into me! shes such a grotesque twisted gnarled horror bflick tree. the kind that will scratch your retina, so the monsters can get ya! easy, new paradigm -like, systemic reach through lucid dreamstate flagging with post of sign, or symbol, insignificant or small like a thimble, yet when you turn it draws you in. your energy sucked up like a fifth of gin you took to your dome, when you realized your life was monotone and not unusual enough.
so you decided to make it rough with a lime squeeze and drunken sex with strangers who had unlabeled exposure to disease. intoxicated eyes meet with that film between them-- say cheese! then roll over hung over in a few hours, after the som-atic hour of lightness had passed. after the meeting of gin and tonic collapsed. after the house of cards became flattened by the child who just learned to destroy. the mad fists of an infant boy on your temples. smile drops off your dimples. touching are your bubble geese, and the turning toward is like synch swimming. the alcohol still wet in your liver, so turning anyway would have made you shiver, then greeting your friend no longer in kodachrome intoxi-vision, you realize you just made it with an old friend who was so way back like you to him that neither of you knew why you got so mired in eachother to the point of counting threadcounts at dawn, or in his case watching to see how long the threads took to filter the drool that made the sunshine exposure so extra added value deep discount give away of leftover spine synching intoxigloss. time always tells. of course being in bed together theres no hiding in shells.
the picture of the two of us finally turning to check eachother out-- superego and id, say ahhh, they already did. and all the words came out, that now stand before you, like Roosevelt on radios, break out your corn queue. or the line for the popcorn, in colloquial tongue. we must appease and appease! and start with the young! guess what? shit sells. they know it on farmland. one pound of manure will buy you some sweetarts with your sweetie. one pound of manure, now thats ego compacted, come on mrs ID lets you and i extract it.
These two carried on like messages in bottles, never to be read, only to be throttled by another wave on wave. a relentless chinese torture. like waves turn to solid pieces, a relativity misnomer. oh the madness of the bottle. keep them inside. the message they carry is lies yes they lied!
further fragmentation of the ego was denied, luckily, as the ego found its place in the keyboard to hide out last night as you dropped it in your intoxi-equilibrium-vacuum. running the sword is the best way to describe the way you dropped into the chair arm in your bedroom. ego dropout knockout you are.
appeal the ego to return, serenade on old guitar. or run the damn laptop over with the car! you need it back, damn it! you are nobody without it! see you dont even have i, so you must be one of those sad ones stuck on a team. having cumbayah parties is such a scream. towing the party line makes up for the primordially extreme. dancing the box step with one another until it somehow feels less wooden, makes for a communal team cream! give me my i back, or i scream! make this dream lucid, or hit me with a golden gate bridge jettisoned i-beam! tractor beam this blog back to space with an astral tugboat. like they said my egoless manifesto suggest: making known the elephant in the room before this entry you consume. i should pay you out for your time. my ego has returned, its mine! and she says this must all have been crap. its gotta get the wrap, the pull, the tap in, the let go and release like toxic element, the flying weightlessness of the irrevelevant.
cause without me it was nothing. like without cherries a sundae hardly exist. even though the cherry stains the cream like a nuclear cyst. the sadist, better known as ID, ate it to exercise the masochise. Superego turned on itself to deride. ego looked on its pets with absent pride. like cats watching dogs from the far to far side. dumbing down comes on like a tide. watch out it will sweep you up. like the id and the superego fucking up your program.
katya stolen, and taken for a test drive. katyas followers faithfully following, trusting katya to enlighten. then realizing if computers had white out, this whole screen would be whitened. bleached. not natural. open the windows. air out the entry. use the sunroof option. jettison the entry. channel the lottery, and tear up katya with virus after virus, emailed surreptitiously under the guise of friend Cyrus. hello look at my picture album! she downloads it delightfully to the sound of the Falbum, the sinister combo of falcon and labum, cousin of labia and gives you lots of lip, from a falcon beak chews up blog waste and offal.
even Katya could not consider it awful. like Kafka burning his works she knew it was right. out in the world the consumers might bite. and systematically perish, a gap in the food chain. and katya dear katya would be held to blame. for the sickly bait on the hook. she would be banned from publishing her yet unpublished book. kids would point at her and look. the poet idiot savante they say, rhymes endlessly all day and day. locked up all night under Falbums watch, some crude stupid creature she thought up from her crotch. throw rocks at her, to tribute shirley jackson. unrelated to the late michael jackson. who also got rocks. but had glittery socks. the indigestion in your mind after reading this entryless entry. shit....it floats.
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