They are not free from the slipstreams of the sky... these actors. These showboats without life vests, who cannot swim. These Kismet candies without any sweeteners. These centerpieces for a toilet-log dinner. This festival of lights in utter darkness, devoid of light. This excrement on the sandals of angels who only play one on TV. These prescription mills for The Brown Acid. These distortion lenses faking 3-D in the mind. These endless entertainments that are not entertaining. These wide lonesome prairies where it will not stop raining. Words forever fail to capture the depth of the sunken-in wrecks, who fellate demons in the darkness, where the last word is “Next.”
Victoria Neuland could play The Whore of Babylon if she did not look like an ugly man. She has all the other deficits listed as assets. She is a vivid and living tale of the things Dorian Grey could not look upon and live. She is Lovecraft's diseased daughter of the imagination. She makes Cthulhu run for his life in search of therapy, AND... she's still here
Where was I? Boy! Am I glad I don't pay attention to the chatter. There is so much chatter that it sounds like the laugh track at the end of the world. How many times have I seen Porky Pig's face, coming out of a cumulonimbus, cloud circle? Over by the horizon line as The Sun is coming up. Going; “ah-vi-bad-dha vi-bad-dha... that's all folks.” By now, I know it begins and ends in the moment, as proof of time passing, over the face of WHAT DOES NOT CHANGE.
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