No genre goes unnoticed in this list:
From photos blurred in backdrops flush with filters
To paintings brushed just like impressionists
(Though some I note from other sites are pilfered).
Although I find your watermark distracts
From screaming natural unnat’ral glows,
‘Least you adjusted all their hues & blacks
‘Way from their boring, ordinary tones.
& you know from no search should e’er be stricken
Such fitting pics of figurines & chickens.
In hot sun
ants bring peas home in
computer.
Hey.
I saw what you’re trying to do--
& I can tell you right now,
it won’t work.
You’re trying to sneak into a li’l niche through you infirmities,
¿Sí?
You thought you could ‘scape.
You were wrong.
We found you out like a trout,
flopping flippantly like febrile phalluses,
spraying your jizz all o’er my exquisite slacks.
That’s gross.
You have no class.
Wipe that mucus from your chin,
wipe that droll from your nose,
pee on the carpet, please:
it needs cleaning.
Just look @ your face.
¡Wait!
¿How’d you do that?
Those who can see their own faces
can only do so through craned eyes.
You’re crazy, man.
Stay ‘way from me, man.
But your door’s locked.
I know you’re doors locked ‘cause you’re still such a substantial dumbshit to fucking find it.
So now I’m stuck with you,
caught in curfew,
when profusely I could be drinking in the smoky air,
sitting on squeaky benches--all o’ them @ once--under maple elms or swimming in seas o’ lucre green--
figuratively, ‘cause it’d truly be in a bank, obviously--
driving, climbing, computing,
eating o’ the arts—culinary or not--all for which I pined,
fed my conscience by catering sentiments o’ my own...
But no--
¡too rich for your veins!
¡Party in the checkered sheets o’ shame!
Waiting. ¿For what?
You’ve filtered the falsities in every nutritious solution;
you know what must be done.
There’s no talking to you.
What kind o’ crazy must I be to be talking to--
¡O Jesus!
¡It’s in me, too!
& therefore it’d be crazy for it to be in you,
which means it’d be crazy for it to be in me, too.
¿What’s wrong with you?
No pueden salir volando las mariposas.
No me importa si están listo:
necesito su calor.
Pero mientras trato de guardarla en su tarro,
aletean lejos las otras;
y mientras trato de reconquistarlas,
la ultima me deja
y me deja sentirme bastante frío.
Basta, ya.
Entonces es mejor que yo use prudentemente mis reservas,
porque dudo que yo pueda capturar no más
no más.
The butterflies can’t fly ‘way.
I don’t care if they’re ready:
I need their warmth.
But as I try keeping 1 in its jar,
the others flutter ‘way;
& while I try to recapture them,
the last leaves,
leaving me rather chilly.
Stop it, already.
So I’d better use my stories wisely,
’cause I doubt I’ll be able to catch any mo’
any mo’.
Bitter punch only tastes sweet
when one has someone else to aim it @.
& no, you can’t scroll down the inner window with that scroll bar on the right; that inner window is fixed tighter than a Zax. Nor does pressing Enter work.
The good news is that I was able to later get in thanks to ‘nother common web design flaw: good ol’ inconsistent design.
You probably think this is some kind o’ joke,
some kind o’ game.
I bet you think it’s a true dickslapper,
you cock-nosed pile o’ cu--
No!
No, it’s worse!
You think this isn’t funny!
You’re sitting there bored,
saying to yourself,
“Yeah, yeah:
you’re a freak;
I got it, bro.”
Well, let me tell you something,
you whippersnapper:
Straighten that back.
Tighten that tie.
Put that hand back into your pants.
You... heh. You thought I wouldn’t see you, didn’t you?
Well, I did.
I see everything.
Suddenly, finally, I woke from that long, fevered dream, only to find myself in an empty, dark void.
Damn.
A soufflé carefully cooked,
hour by hour...
SLAM!
Oven door’s open 1 second suddenly.
It’s dead.
I can hear the bomb ticking in my brain...
I can feel the knife scraping my neck & forehead;
constricting, suffocation,
moldy blue skin.
A tepid leaf floating flimsily on the edge o’ a bough
till the hands reach out &--
CRUNCH!
I saw it.
You didn’t saw it.
They didn’t even saw it.
No! No, no, wait...
Hands don’t reach out...
The feet!
Those poor giants stumble forward on their feet & step on the leaves,
crumbling them to dust
too fine to see.
O, but the withered dust is so sexy.
We should thank our giants for this masterpiece.
The realm must be improved:
all sores must be cured,
all stains wiped with clean rags & disinfectant,
all trash must be taken & recycled.
That which has no purpose must be repurposed:
hearts & minds lying round should be cooked into a delightful stew,
skin must be peeled...
The ethical hunter must use all parts o’ the animal’s body so that nothing goes to waste...
as it went to waste ‘fore the hunting.
There’s no time for gasps & cries.
Just stop your rude interruptions o’ the rolling dice.
I never interrupted you during your turn.
You didn’t get a turn.
You didn’t need 1.
You’re already dead.
I know I’ll be next.
We’ll all be next ‘ventually.
& that’s OK.
Everything’s safe here.
‘Cause when you’re guaranteed death,
nothing can be dangerous anymo’.
Death is the safest place to be.
Like a warm pillow caressing the back o’ your head...
Mmm...
That is till it STRIKES!
¿Te he dicho del cubo?
¡El cubo!
¡Tan pequeño que me aparecería ahora,
pero tan gigante que me aparecía entonces!
Se llenaba con juguetes diversos de comida y platos,
muchos de los que tenían etiquetas de marcas imaginarias.
A menudo yo imaginaba los tipos de empresas imaginarias que las manufacturarían.
Cada mañana de domingo,
empezando a los 6,
arrastraba el cubo a mí cama
y para horas hacían juegos extrañas,
como los dibujos animados viejos y raros
que mostraban en la madruga,
como Jabberjaw o aquellos episodios de Scooby Doo que tienen los Globetrotters, Cass Eliot y Batmas como invitado.
No fue el eón que no aprendí lo que es arte,
sino sí fue la 1era vez que creó arte.
Have I told you ‘bout the tub?
The tub!
How small ‘twould seem to me now,
but how giant it seemed then!
‘Twas filled with various toys o’ food & dishes,
many o’ which had labels o’ pretend brands.
Oft I’d imagine the types o’ businesses that would manufacture these.
Each Sunday morn,
starting @ 6 AM,
I’d drag the tub o’er to my bed
& for hours play strange games,
like those old, obscure cartoons
that they’d show late after midnight,
like Jabberjaw or those episodes o’ Scooby Doo that had the Globetrotters, Cass Eliot, & Batman as guests.
It wasn’t the eon that I learned what art is,
but was the 1st time I created art.
