Section zero (—legato—) skinny dipping at The Blue Hole or bro-
                              mean scene yes & yellow or raining outdoors
                              selecto getting tocked, without hugs
Selving time through parts sunlight selves sore pets part and pet
                              pets and mo pet patter per neurobyte than just
                              saying that that way
Send in extrascent with shambling like-regular people, them’s whose
Sensibility don’t waste kisses
She asked from the life worth lived
She finked future—precise about all that it was with or without
She is a photo, stained and leap-eyed
She tongues late and’s a total trollop for numbware, carbs and etc
She will be famous and comfortable with herself
                              shest humin my dirty southern (spit it out)
Smiles on faces, we engage the nasty here, right now
Simon says — but can we trust it?
Snowly blonded masque of jeer cache and personal pleasure come
                              around the bend and the climax, and there’s that beep—
                              you know what to do, what parts do, with touching to
                              turn off the alarm
So close now, the illbient Sriracha or ecstasy —
So, is there a term for women bears, whether butch or not?
So then: “when can my face hand?” — like anger out of a sprinkler,
                              thin up
Soap and radiator fluid from mechanics up on high, ninjas
Sobbing wobbling exterior payday: the indoor lighting sweat, a
                              Pollyanna Manifold and basicallyeverything dreamt of
                              in the heteroverse— “Bug Hunt” she said, and paid for
                              her pancakes
Sock wad Mondrian, serious— look!
Somebody coughs up a grown ass feeling
Something “new” exists, something “more” than the morning drive &
                              dread of linoleum baritone (someone “get” someone)
Stretch poke twist
Surely somebody has a stick with a shorter end

Hake and Salome hit Saks 5th with a lady and a humalong, i forget what
                              that is exactly, but there he was
He buries the lurch in rug thick draft rug, catatonic
He had seen something in her eyes when she was alive that was now
                              no longer there
He is lost in place and the dog's soul is in the Fluorescent Ditch unabashed
                              (laps her LED labia)
He is now neither neige or night, he is banterbiotic
He sits in that same Fluorescent Ditch, uncertain
Hell hath no furry Cinderella — is it even funny? like haha, or gecks
                              too mad to mattress debate?
Her mystery draped lack, her Nebelstimme and Chicken leg toilet myth,
                              small wonders & gris gris,
Here was there a minute ago, yes or no stalgia
Here we speak of a thing that de-cootifies usually behind the Cher-
                              Grover curtain drops of the guestground,
                              without a queen or logos to fart in,
Hey Vasquez have you ever been mistaken for a milk carton with a blade
                              thru your face?
His sweat dripped over tone and anguish in the soil, her soil, she spoke
                              to him of the Ditch, from the Ditch
Hollywebcam here I come, “This time it’s perusal”
Hungs and kinsies, remote context
    hush hush mushmouth, mostly mama mostly said mostly and they only
                              come out at night goes like this for time while audience
                                             parses wit from the rub

Talk To The Audience More
                              tell me about your anger in traffic
Tetrisish and fencing, do they kiss up in the glut? no, do they
                              squirt it? no, do you even blow?
Tetrisish Johnson of the Orange Roves, also “does blogging”
That thing in between (aka, “the meanwhile”) acts (a spit & push
The background game is most pun tight
The Big If, aka—“cleft” plants, aka—(we should) do dim (sum sometime)
                              aka—pulled light
The caller is moist with a tude coast
The directors' cunt slotter lapping stink of hurt and argument, direct her,
                              only then
The freckled entrepreneurs’ body language, the faker porridge—
                              no, I mean, no means orange
The heartbeat & the garbage can
The horizon is univalent and inchoate, like Ace Hardware’s aisle-smell
The master’s backhoe has never dismantled the master’s gazebo
The sloppy doubtful gypper coaxing a verb so phylumly urban that
The spider from Enemy says “hi”
These large bugs that kept landing on him, the silver of the shovel
                              in the moonlight
                              thinks the voice, sings the choir
                                        [this is instrumental]
This script is unwieldy over monster drinks
Thru illegal prescriptions and forged documents from government leaks
                              and break-ins, IKEA has a snoopy doll
Too dark to dump, not even a fun dump even
Toy gorge milk the plastic flexi ick

                              want to kiss your lips Juan the baptist
We are no closer to being the Fluorescent Ditch, we remember this
               as we trudge forward, wafting through what isn’t even
We are plorn tum and bodied wig as the music's angles bode and
We continue our adventure where we left off, Paraffin Dayglone
                              with hair in the sexy wind!
We do a quick selfie us
We hear them, the edible light amen dunes and they are softly
               singing some plushed postknowist prealism
We rest
We will and we have, if they have punctuated silhouettes and here
                              comes another thing everybody’s gonna just have to
                              go with, 24/7 hokum tenens
What's a mask shitting scene?
Where have all the frowners gone?
Who would we become our own milk to create a perfect fit?
Who's going to slop me?
Who's shadow & whose who slop, slop patient with both hands
Wings, Phillies — you’re no for gyros, so don’t be a hero
Without the wig, we return to the action on a Bloom County Star
                              Worse Burger King glass

I am A—widening minivan
I know you don’t know what i mean you fill in the blanks each time
I left my paint and sense of colorful heat at the last trebled tree level
I like your like
I need to be slopped, notes for kids in poptart comas—fortissimo
I re-met a hot hot hipster in my unhaunted house… Carol Ann?
                              i think that's what she said
I wishit dentn’t direct this
I’m composing my own facial hair with the visitors
In parallel swamping Darger’s little girls—
In the time pre-boogeyman, does human touch mutter?
                              in solution C. With and with background
                                        invisible “means” pronouns
Iss herd iss ass if oh em gee (i spy), issue me a fapping license
It fell across the floor with love and more icicles from the Ditch,
It is close to the end
It kinda slowly hoods w/a beep — it’s still there tho for pleasuring
It’s what-ups with you & atchoo, like cinnamon bun says sex

A cold corridor with eleven actors for ear zero,
                                        a habit hose (staccato)
A low lying flute and here a Rack Room Shoes now de-leap and
                              pre-dream style, but not a shithole
A release Diaz
A toy hole sponged by quantity not quality
A vampire Gilligan gendering over Mrs. Howell and then a weak seed,
                              classically beneath but still controlled by puppet strings
                                        [affectation, infection, iteration]
                                        al niente:
All hangs in blue binders and vehicles saturated soaked and absorbed,
                              plus clouds,
                              and his gilded nightwing
                              and his sanitary way of filet
                              and his super luscious tube
and his transfer to another org & soaked door frame of film cells

And then too many nouns on the dance floor,
And they are his
               and weeks squeeze pimples & softly the chewtoid
Anti-amplification equals a description indifferent to a description plopped
                              down on repetition repetition, she’s lost
Are you freaking with me
          ashamed at everything feeling you through these parts

                                        dal niente
                                          dang it

Daylight sent that past
Dead baby raped on a telephone pole affetto, a drying cranston and
                              a Fuck Leisure tan
Dear cocktail weenies, with barbs, Round Sock and Rabun tab,
                              Drabbing Springs to the Onsies, beep the ink spots
DeLorean zero odered with Cocaine Bacon Mist (which is real)
Dibbs on handles party standards labile Pringles decrap L’ Fingers
                              Pepe, lap you white lies with whispers & maybe
                                       do they belong together?
Dow Jones and doe eyed doer coast sit your drink discuss the campaign
                          down on his knees looking for a little eraser
Dust to limit backlit Police State static / necroneon, Bone-in passion

Page freshener: Sack luck & diagonal face, drung this his—hiss glum,
                              in time with— kitchen shend?
                                    page down daylight, sparkle
Papa Smorzando, suddenly the cameo donut
Part 2: Spoking without language– with upsized versions “Afflecker
                              plunk included!” —sharts and glyphs —nodal fecal fries kill
                              and much much less depending on what vacuum you use
Partoned Stallone has a Lumpy
                                        parts, to inspect closely
Pass me nonsense on a turtle nekked coffee mug, or i dunno, parss
                              or ifish
Plantation ambiance & Sammy Hagar, absolute horror the horrible
Please see the appendix marked fuck you
Pointed with starless and Deneuve—
                              (probably an Elvis of the isle of GIFs)

Objects must inform the drop box burn on musical teeth
Of course the reward being dolor's smarmy pants
Of spare emotions
OK, back, i’m in—background in see-thru aspirin (check)
                  on degrayed rain releases linking for a little sleaze
Or Inthig Rarting (check again)
Or maybe a Kawaii brunt, a hookah hook up to slave the typo gravy
Or so it slang
Out of synch but g-funk level with the lining-free rube, but nap
                              before battle
Outtakes from Mars-like attempts (theirotic snoring with smores) from
                              here forward read like scene 2 dejá vu (when they come for you)

McCunning or couch she or he turns and says, “willie's what’s?”
                              It like, INGs of Desire, as much as possible, gasp them
Meow “lick” murr
Metonymy still ping stupor, someone more swollen, Peas for God's

Mit ohne tesseract handshake, I left laughing & was glad I didn’t
                              have to pay a cover because that shit sucked so bad it wasn't
                              even funny
                                 more fat the longer it cooks
My mandolin is my mandolin rain by bruce hornsby and the range
                              exiled in Palookaville w/the mob grump's iron pigs

No longer shadows or palm trees but tan—tan plastic bags
no-handed they pre-toed poodles for this shot swinging from a tree
Now we see that the trailer looks terrible?
                              now, that background [—beep—]
                           nower than tense — scent space / scent time

Nü pronoun odor smerm par bled, through to your needs
                              they brood, all odor such a ramified nonsense —
                              noone can’t believe you
Numero you know, yugosnuggle saliva boss needs a
                              hurried go slow v kneck sweater & to get his
                              salad tossed

Fade haircut, except more Schmerzando
Fade in a footsy dank and amber blurt from the public gore
                                  fingers tiring from air quotes
Five guys fries reprise
Flip them to twixt or dew, like fried fish with glitter
Fluorescent Ditch: scenting them plus minus a Hidden Valley
                              Ranch OS update
Frank Further— “Isn’t this a Family fantasy film?”
Fumble figures cursed and knowing
    future Riker’s sigh and then land on or pasture you crushed
                     a star in the wrap pop-n-i won’t forget it

Last days of the Khmer Rouge portrayed by local Wookies
Let us impersonal pizza because the cigarette burns left to hiss on
                              were candle bright while their angry light, their ghostly goiter
                              was more there as the figure ate us
Let’s all glance pink snow for awhile please
Let's start from the top
Licker Deluna and look, I’m being lyric

Right as the plane doesn't land unsubscribe from your father's
                              thumb print in your sandwich
               ring the beep plot— [ho tasers twink] —tube blush
Rodger that, voice over
Rose Hobart how exactly you have no resemblance

Jack N. has a map printed on his sack
Jill had the boy run up and down the hill and it was sweet but that
                              boy gets ideas

Evacuate the instant no matter how jazzy, there’s always a
                              worse burger
                              (emphasis on bank hole america)

                                             gimme kissy
Girlfriend In Anachronism (aren't you part, too)

Vicodin pocked—“If you like penis costanzas”

Climax is a solid sugar outro

Zero patience for the down low

j4 is a collective of four persons, all given names beginning with j, who are compelled to explore transindividual composition
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