glove

it is the greatest of the imperfect ventriloquist acts: when your lips move, my body sings.

so! you take let us assume a third toke; long and slow. you vaporise and you take it in and in and there is a cheer. the gnomes have learned a new way to say hooray. the windows are crawling with geometric hallucinations. very brightly colored, very iridescent. deep sheen and very highly reflective surfaces. everything machine-like and polished. throbbing with energy but what gets my attention is that this space is inhabited. "that's enough of what you are for yourself! let's go back to the dancing mice..."
this is what they have suppressed so long. this is why they are so afraid of the psychedelics, because they understand that once you touch the inner core of your own and someone else's being you can't be led into thing-fetishes and consumerism. the message of psychedelics is that culture can be re-engineered as a set of emotional values rather than products. this is terrifying news.

permanent insurrection--seize back control of one's own history from parents, school, Welfare, TV--come live with us in the barrens--we'll cultivate a local brand of seedless rope to finance our luxuries & contemplation of summer's alchemy--& otherwise produce nothing but artifacts of poetic terrorism & mementos of our pleasures

going for aimless rides, fishing & gathering, lying around in the shade reading & eating grapes--this is our economy. the suchness of things when unchained from the Law, each molecule an orchid, each atom a pearl to the attentive consciousness--this is our cult. the airstream is draped with persian rugs, the lawn is profuse with satisfied weeds

the treehouse becomes a wooden spaceship in the nakedness of July & midnight, half-open to the stars, warm with epicurean sweat, rushed & then hushed by the breathing of the pines. (dear bolo log: you asked for a practical & feasible utopia--here it is, no mere post-holocaust fantasy, no castles on the moon of jupiter--a scheme we could start up tomorrow--except that every single aspect of it breaks some law, reveals some absolute taboo in u.s. society, threatens the very fabric of etc., etc. too bad. this is our true desire, & to attain it we must contemplate not only a life of pure art but also pure crime, pure insurrection. amen.)

sexy quantum love method
mammoth living
grass breakfast

i prefer storms in my car
skies raining ganja
spilling beats into parking lots

The son takes off the dad's pants and starts sucking his cock, while the daughter licks the dad's asshole and the mother fucks the dog.

The dog starts pissing in the mother's cunt as the dad is shitting in his daughter's mouth and the son then starts fucking the shit in his sister's mouth. The sister then licking and sucking the mother's cunt, mixing the shit and piss together and then spits the shit and piss all over her mother.

The dog starts licking her mother's face, while the sister is blowing the dog, while the dad is fist-fucking the dog, while the son is double-fisting his dad, while the mother throws up all over the son's cock.

The sister gets up and starts sucking the vomit off her brother's cock. The father takes a monsterous shit on the floor and the mother starts eating it. The mother and daughter start making out and the son pisses all over the dog's face. The dog sticks his face down the dad's asshole and vomit's. The father then pisses out the vomit somehow all over his daughter.

The mother and daughter are both, did I mention, having their period. The son is sucking his mother and the father his licking his daughter. After their mouthes are full with blood they spit it on each other.

Then the daughter takes out the dog's glass eye and takes a shit in his eye socket. The son and father take turns fucking the dog's eye socket as the mother sucks the dog's balls as the daughter eats her brother's asshole.

The daughter squeezes her blackheads onto the dog's tongue as the son explodes his cyst all over his mother's chest. The son licks up all the puss and blood from his mother's chest as the dog is licking all the blackheads inside the son's asshole as the father is fucking her daughter in the ass.

The son and dad start jerking each other off as the dog is pissing on the daughter as the mother is fistfucking him in the asshole. The son cums all over his sister and the father cums all over the dog while his wife licks it up.

The daughter starts getting fucked by the dog in the nose and the dog cums inside the daughters nose. She snorts the cum in and starts choking and pukes inside her father's mouth. Her father then starts puking and shitting and puking and shitting and puking and shitting and makes a big pile of puke and shit all over the floor. The mother and dog start fucking in the puke and shit and the son starts fisting his mother as the daughter and father are fucking.

The father turns the daughter around and fucks her in the ass and gives her a donkeypunch. She is unconscious and the father cums in her asshole. The dog starts licking her asshole.

The son bites his father's cock off and lodges it up his unconscious sister's asshole. Then he starts fucking his father in the spot where his cock used to be, while the mother is chewing on the dogs balls.

By now the room is covered in a layer of shit and puke and sweat and blood and cum. The daughter wakes up and starts to eat the shit and puke and sweat and cum and blood, while the father bites off the dogs balls and spits them down his wifes throat. The wife then shits out the balls and the son eats them.

The wife then breaks her daughter's neck and rips her head off. The son starts fucking her in the neck and the mother takes the lamp and sticks it up her asshole.

Then they start eating all the puke and shit and blood and cum and sweat until the room is clean. Then the father takes a tremendous shit on the floor and the father takes a bow.

from the time she could crawl
she was all draped in macrame
she was preen and redeemed
in a church that tried to show the way
she was taught to never ask for more
they had no idea of what she had in store.
she's the queen of the 21st century
just a ghost of what her parents thought a little girl should be
analog heart, analog nerves, analog brain
but a fixture of the digital domain
(woh...)
from the time she could read
she could see that there was urgency
no debate, just a spate of ignorance in a splintering community
she could never meet their expectations
then she came to symbolize the nation
she's the queen of the 21st century
just a shell of what her parents thought a little girl should be
steeped in spite, coddled in fear, drenched in novelty
oh but masterful of sensual technology
she's the queen
no rules in her empire
she's the queen
just libido and desire
she's a lean, mean fighting machine
the stuff for modern media lore
and she always knows the score
she's the queen of the 21st century
just a ghost of what her parents thought a little girl should be
fallen star, black and blue, broken hearts, wasted youth
rusted cars, twisted roots, mental scars, the ugly truth
she's the queen of the 21st century
and she's a modern day romantic, a walking controversy
she's the queen of the 21st century
she's the queen

everything in nature is perfectly real including consciousness, there's absolutely nothing to worry about. not only have the chains of the law been broken, they never existed; demons never guarded the stars, the empire never got started, eros never grew a beard.

no, listen, what happened was this: they lied to you, sold you ideas of good & evil, gave you distrust of your body & shame for your prophethood of chaos, invented words of disgust for your molecular love, mesmerized you with inattention, bored you with civilization & all its usurious emotions.

there is no becoming, no revolution, no struggle, no path; already you're the monarch of your own skin--your inviolable freedom waits to be completed only by the love of other monarchs: a politics of dream, urgent as the blueness of sky.

To shed all the illusory rights & hesitations of history demands the economy of some legendary stone age--shamans not priests, bards not lords, hunters not police, gatherers of paleolithic laziness, gentle as blood, going naked for a sign or painted as birds, poised on the wave of explicit presence, the clockless nowever.

agents of chaos cast burning glances at anything or anyone capable of bearing witness to their condition, their fever of lux et voluptas. i am awake only in what i love & desire to the point of terror--everything else is just shrouded furniture, quotidian anaesthesia, shit-for-brains, sub-reptilian ennui of totalitarian regimes, banal censorship & useless pain.

avatars of chaos act as spies, saboteurs, criminals of amour fou, neither selfless nor selfish, accessible as children, mannered as barbarians, chafed with obsessions, unemployed, sensually deranged, wolfangels, mirrors for contemplation, eyes like flowers, pirates of all signs & meanings.

here we are crawling the cracks between walls of church state school & factory, all the paranoid monoliths. cut off from the tribe by feral nostalgia we tunnel after lost words, imaginary bombs.

the last possible deed is that which defines perception itself, an invisible golden cord that connects us: illegal dancing in the courthouse corridors....if i were to kiss you here they'd call it an act of terrorism--so let's take our pistols to bed & wake up the city at midnight like drunken bandits celebrating with a fusillade, the message of the taste of chaos.

i have about 78 mosquito bites
brewing a pot of sexy.

last night i drove a car
not knowing how to drive
not owning a car
i drove and knocked down
people i loved
...went 120 through one town.

i stopped at hedgeville
and slept in the back seat
...excited about my new life.

my very energetic mother just served us nine pizzas.

let us see dead bodies but not naked ones.

heroin baby hell.
electric white fragments as she startups.
flicking quickening tears switch pure science to black high
cocaine paste a land a finger waiting to break
stealing back mars she’s swinging wire fences
the dustthroat man is drama
with a rhyme twisted down under
the theme of her combat love bites.
the taste of 3am cats
she is reaching recognition of fire.
dig?
from mask light bones, come flyfire
her words loose face to moments untold
lines. sanity. scream ice
she’s echoed heaven
royally
the apossible out of skull imagination.
speechless. to perfect every dream
of this falling dead
honest poltergeist to break the industry
with a throbbing punchline of love
cartel i like
heart black planet stash,
the howl returns home.
technicrat perversion will uptrash instinct
a strange pattern thunder
the doorman craving disco plastic.
a charming artist 100,000 symptoms electric
a mission the cracked still test poor
the jealous nailbomb picket.
her minds erection escapes hands
"now disappear birth"
only antennas remain under the royal plastic
pure dead perversion
echo of the industry

send in the clowns.

black body civilization in a universe of passionate attitudes echoing nothing but consolations of freedom and evolution. the lucidity of speech between worlds.

texas is the reason

the first task of the man who wants to be a poet is to study his own awareness of himself, in its entirety; he seeks out his soul, he inspects it, he tests it, he learns it. As soon as he knows it, he must cultivate it! . . . --but the problem is to make the soul into a monster, like the compachicos, you know? think of a man grafting warts onto his face and growing them there.

i say you have to be a visionary, make yourself a visionary.
a poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. all forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons and preserves their quintessence's. unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed--and the supreme scientist!

when the eternal slavery of women is destroyed, when she lives for herself and through herself, when man--up till now abominable--will have set her free, she will be a poet as well! woman will discover the unknown! will her world of ideas differ from ours? she will discover strange things, unfathomable, repulsive, delightful; we will accept and understand them.

id and the super-ego are separate parasitic invasions
attack by the language virus
all symbiotic relationships inevitably mutate into parasitic ones
positively harmful
forcing thought into patterns which impinge upon the behaviour of the host
felt by the constant internal monologue which occurs in the human mind
it is impossible to escape control unless one develops techniques to temporarily shut down the internal monologue