Leper: This sick fucking expression, the worship of expression. We eat ourselves whole in cleverness for subtlety stretching our emotional scars over conversational bones handed to us by our parents, our dinner plates, our rat-a-tat-tat channel flipping nightmares converted by the machine gift of easy lives into this sick unspoken competition of clever interpretations of pain, this pain so trivial in comparison, its triviality raising its value like trinkets. Artists collect pains and put them in glass cases to show off, oh look here I’m misunderstood, gimme fifty bucks and I’ll swear that you understand. Fuck expressions, I like this, this likes that, and some more, some more, of those, behind which you can stand and justify your comfort, justify your soft hands and convenience food, eating it as if it was an outlet for your anger, an outlet for your frustration, outlet for your suffering, and this outlet eats you back. Eats into your back, like dogs on holiday in a cream cheese vagina, like the buttered wings of a fly in the grubby digits of an obese child of god, like sadness eating grapes. I just shit liquid for thirty minutes. Wrapping paper liquids. I am the tail end of process. I am the covert-ed hypocrite. Coerced into the button world where the Styrofoam diamonds breathe the fire of glossy photos. Too be robbed. She rub rotated her crotch up against principals, Lego made principals of wired paths. I am followed by technical beautification, transcended into partial hieroglyphs, not unlike the buttered wings of a fly, too follow me. Into circuit leaves. Where once upon so they say there lied a green thing inside a blue light of rotating gear shaft blink lights, signifying the nature sand processes, on a far away beach inside a faraway VCR. Nine times out of one, a soul center placed on the god floppy, the mouse over hors-d’oeuvre. Floppy pillows, you know I’ve eaten them instead of fruit on occasion, videos exchanged for thoughts, there might have been a flutter as the 19 inch flat panel monitor swirled gracefully tracing the path of love mother’s egg and father’s seed took so many years ago now on the walls of her vagina. Order of flashing lights. The order of flashing lights enchanted the egg into the dance of propagation, swearing enrichment by the fucking circuit, the life circuit that particular blinking light my ten byte individuality unsought for brought into the subjugating glare of the order of the flashing lights. The order of the flashing lights, lining them up in drawn faced ropes of waiting, for the product, the product producing that product feeling. The item feeling, the purchase love, the sell cock only by virtue of the cock ring of the order of the flashing light has the power for purchase over that fair ground of instinctual worship. You know when the environment is a drug. Trinity of compromise between advertisement and product. What the fuck are you looking at I’m trying to make you give me money, I get the starch rotted teeth and the black lungs and the addictions as courage providers, I get the soft hands and the crooked back, I get the warm house and the early blindness, I get the guilt free products of third world blood for the low low price on sale till Saturday of a life of trite. Descendant of those who died to give us this inundation -world worship of triviality. On the backs of those indigenous souls with the brilliantly white teeth. On the occasion when there was an occasion, a necessary byproduct, a fruitful delegation, of operands and whatnots one might say, behind and in besides of the trivial, or did I already say that?
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