My Free Flow. In auto-affect. Thanks Gertrude-Stein for the inspirationstation

On the inside there are thoughts. On the thoughts live the words. And the words are the meaning. But is the meaning in the words? In the words there are pieces, there are pieces to a puzzle. In this puzzle there are edges. And edges blur with words. Thoughts pretend to be the puzzle. But puzzles don't fit together, contrary to popular belief. With popular belief there is ignorance. With popular belief there is ignorance. And with ignorance there is confusion. There are words, with contusions.

A Bố Sa La Tư

*This is my reaction to Blood and Guts in High School, By Kathy Acker.

And by Reaction I mean to imply a chemical change in my consciousness on a front that not only tantalizes my brain juices, but stews the sex in my head. And boils me 'til I cook. I was befuddled, enraged, and inspired all wrapped into one nebulous mess. Ackler touches down to a level that we can all relate, but then twists it all around to wonder who this story really happened to.

I've been traveling. Distances in my head, since the time we last Fucked. "I am repulsive." "No I am hot". Hot is something that boils, when the bubbles are about to pop. You are the burner and I am the water. And more often than not, you cause me to overflow.
And it burns.
But I still drink it.
Drunk; your liquid hits me hard.
Travels the tributaries of my insides that only are quenched by this sort of downpour.
But I have this umbrella with holes in it to catch
me
from
you
from
me
who is we.
?
Because in this steamy saga, I play more roles than one.
I spread my legs to be the worlds stage.

"You're insane, go back home"
So now do you touch your burning hot cock. That's been inside of my head till it reached my last block. But who do you think of in these moments alone.
Is it my voice on the phone.
Calling you from New York, all alone.
All ways and always I find my place.
Behind the counter of some Hippie's Pachoili infused Pussy.
I run, from my lousy mindless salesgirl character.

A customer enters. Who then sits down with me at the lunch table, and says he likes my lunch box. Oh boy did he enter. And I give him head in chemistry classroom. And after, I've licked my lips, we cook ramen noodles on our Bunsen Burner.
And that is how I learned Chemistry.

The thought of your Scorpian makes my legs completely wet.
Sting me. Permanently. Or just for a small time.
Your stinger lingers.

heavy breathing. panting. sweat. blood. rush. euphoria. hatred. lust. combust. trust. Fuck.

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<>But, I AM in love. Right. (?)

I WONK U O Y WONK I

I know you know I. You know why I know. Why I know you know.

Knock Knock. Who's there this time.
Oh yeah. Me. I. You. Us. youuseim
That mirror;
That Shadow.
The words that come out of I
That you composed in our head.
I'm so glad we work so well together.
What a team. Go Us. Our works fuck

I know you know why.
But I still don't know I.
Why you know, I know. Though.

Hear and They're in Coincidental Moments

(A twist on Raymond Queneau's, Excercises in Writing)

I wake up late today. The numbers 11:23am stare and poke fun at me as I look through my sleepy-coated eyes. Damnit! What cell phone company makes its standard alarm setting to the tune of Braun's Lullaby. Not to mention the fact that I am missing the volume Button on my phone. I shit, shower, and surrender to not shaving in the absence of time to make the S bus. I run out the door, only to notice, it is snowing and the top button on my petticoat pops off as I fly out the door, and push the button for ground level on my apartment. Oh well. Who needs buttons anyway. A rusty safety pin that I find in the bottom of my bag does the trick to temporarily 'hold me together'.

The platform for the S bus is ridiculously crowded with imbalsils and intellectuals alike. There are stupid floppy hats, short skirts, cigerettes, and a talking decibal level that could probably be heard on the moon. If we had a button to push that could do that. The sky is nebulous, little plops of snow-like slushy material land like little coagulated buttons as they hit the pavement. I notice a particular man, with a neck like an anorexic giraff and a hat as unappealing as his face nudges past me as we swarm onto the bus. He's listening to some stupid overly sexed, dance hall beat on his ipod. He smells like Whiskey. Cheap Whiskey. Im replacing the safety pin to the top of my coat, when this 'neck and hat fellow' does a little jolt and falls onto the pin I am attempting to replace to my petticoat. Definitly not safe. He jumps back, shoots me a glare from Hell, spits a splatter of brown saliva to the bus floor and then stammers past me to meet his friend. I hit the pause botton on my own music just in time to hear this man talking to his friend about the safety pin pricking. I also notice as people get on and off the bus, this same annoying man is stepping on all of their toes; repeatedly and not nonchalantly at all. Talk about really pushing peoples' buttons! Finally after a stuffy 1 hour and 53 minutes on the bus, the giraffe neck jerk gets off the bus, and squashes 4 out of my 5 toes on my left foot. I let it go, but mentally tell the prick off as he walks by stupidly. As he steps off, the safety pin on my coat falls to the floor. I don't bother to pick it up.

The day continues in a similar fashion. Many pin-prick contusions to my ego and stepped on toes prevail, realing thier ugly heads all throughout my day. I need nicotene. As I am walking to the bus that will carry me home, I approach two men who appear to be deep in conversation. I ask to bum a cigarette, and albiet, the anorexic giraffe looks up at me unknowling realizing we shared in each others pain on the S this morning. He hands me a cigarette, smoothly hits the button on his zippo lighter, and ignites my stick into pleasure. The two men go back to quarreling about the importance of proper button placement on a lapel and I walk into the night, but on a new trail this time...