.08
Rinds. Wires. Spineless organisms. Prisons, overcrowded. Gnashing teeth. In the head of the personification of the last god, at war with all the living, and winning. Sandfleas, ice. Internal rupture. Spume horizons. Sperm tides. Laceration. No ruler, no citizenship. Worshiping the concept of worshiping nothing. Redaction of the law of man under the fist of man having forgotten how to sleep. Eyes falling out of the heads of any witness of a distinct present holding forth over the passage of it rendered real. Up to the neck in data. Devoid of data.
.07999
Mount of the sea. Upon which light takes the form of a ballast and swings and beats itself against the sound barrier, deafening those not already deaf from the endless thrall of the international PA, blaring even unheard the promise of a new form of death, an illimitable infestation. Laughing in the choirs now having forgotten any song. The electronic tongue of the conductor, the hissing handclaps of the congregation, the percussion of the atrophy of newborns, the distant demolition’s rancid acid pleather bass in virtual negative. Where as the book turns its own pages, there is not a page remaining to be turned to, and yet it turns.
.07989
Mendacity. Erasure of wildlife. Exclusive Cone-shaped coal-loaded receptacles for reverse feeding with which one must forfeit all future claim to procreation. Last breath of the death fern of the dead leader, long thought to one day bear the fruit promised as balm against whichever scourge worked best against us going forward. The long lines of assholes outside each bedroom window, waiting that the present occupant might blink. Genital casinos. Oceanliner concentration camps for birds, horses, firstborn. No batteries that still hold charge. All glass crushed in one child’s eyeblink like a hammer on the dick of a famous magician who believed for sure he could withstand it and now cannot even remember how to guess the number you are thinking, have been thinking your whole life. Pink-outs. Unbeginnings.
.079888
The Tunnel bloated open through the cleft. We believed perhaps this was the culmination of the zitted scripture pulled from the skin of the long-thought disproven infant martyr Lweiruowieurowieieowurowie as presented in terminal episode of national miniseries Skdjflsoweweasdfasjdhfjahsdkjfhaksdhfklashdflka, foretold to lead us out of ourselves into ourselves, but even as the early transgressors crowded themselves down Tunnel surviving official fire to guinea pig their remainders for us unfreed, the tunnel magnetically collapsed again upon them as easily as it had appeared, squirting gut liquid all over all eyes all mouths all promise all demand. Where upon the site at once was built a palace both without windows, doors, or walls, within which was said would one day live the author of our resurrection, and thereby became the fundamental focus of all human conflict, misery.
.07987888888888888
Who isn’t there? All and any of who had been called upon to accompany us through the prenatal disfiguration of our ongoing legacy’s pertinent fate designed conscripted before its pleasure could be consecrated as the seeds of an open planet no one believes in.
.07987
Bathed in the goring night, the exegesis, peals of swallowing, pale eels underneath the rash of the earth split into ten and ten and ten again, rafts on which the indigenous reptoids scramble to hold together any semblance of an archive of ambient dementia in their skeletal plasma, so that it might be passed on through the miles of unburied flesh piled in the wake of machinery so loud there isn’t an encyclopedia that hasn’t wilted, no cord sewing the babe to the mom for feed and so instead sucking off her indigestion, insomnia, dysphoria, hypoplaxia, tendonitis, eczema. Rotating spheres in inestimable conglomeration disemboweled by passing star-trash to rain acid upon the open landscape where meat lies overexposed and uncorroding through the winters of infinite nightmaric syntheses combined in brine of trying to teach one’s self to never lie, to never ask the actual question underneath the question as presented by the bearer of the Holy Collaborator’s living, gel-based CPU, its chemical makeup not so different from the lube we splash on before all familial interaction, all entertainment, begetting the most grandiose of rage, with which we can do no more again but fall on forward through the genetic spasms drawing us forward as the stage clears in anticipation of the delivery of our death wish monologue apology on behalf of both the actors and the stagehands and the director the playwright and the ground on which we’ve been allowed to even be, and the inevitable applause thereafter, from the only member of the audience, on whose life lived after death the entire story has been based on.
.07985
Sequencing a minute-long digital arrangement of the death throes of our last celebrated figureheads on the only remaining working laptop, buried upon which the last known written document of man sits hidden in a buried folder marked PLEASE DELETE ME, still forever unread as the sound is, the text inside the file writing itself.
.0798433
DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME DO NOT DELETE ME
