first, heavily layer on the auger-hollowed aubergine. this is the base needed and requested for this particular project. if done right, this background will disgust to the point where each floating dollop of paint catches the eye as pin-fine relief and pleasure; the optic nerve should receive a primary buff of star-fuzz, rotating scrubber encyclical motion pads, expertly nano-programmed with the finest artisan algorithms. this will provide the recipient with forever-altered associations and a classical conditioning response to the used hues.

next comes the mescaline blue; its job is to only summon itself and provide unlawful neon piercings. it doesn’t even look at the nearby colors. it doesn’t need to.

albedo white is wholly next. it will have citrus-warm temperature still lingering underneath its brighter flecks. this is to provide contrast to the aforementioned blue; they are different realms, and will only correspond in the viewer’s brain-driven eyes. it will, as researched in trial ch#ff8000-x53, be a firm handle and flip-switch to remind the viewer how bright things can be.

finally comes the penultimate and the ultimate—necessarily in that order—patina blue-green and grape glaucous. they act as dampening fields for mortal observers; eyes will thank these colors (per a sanctioned interfacial exchange) later in old-age retirement. they will look of an unnatural paint substance, and will make the resulting canvas either more or less surreal, depending on previous experience and nature of the viewer’s philosophical character.

rowdy triangles,
	collapsed mangle of tree vibrationals
lapse in sensory valvalidity
	reduced to grandiosity through express mind mentality
up and down and prepositionally around
	who cares about sound when these images are around!
waves of noise might as well drop dead to the ground
	useless for rendered stasis so profound and gained and
	found and found and found.
ultimate surrender may be preferable
	to forever lending away the visionary’s splendor...

bibio loops sputtering their way into my head

walking on walking on so many streets with their materials, treating me to themselves

camera ops, photo splotches never to be canonized in film, but to rest within my brain bits, waiting for soup to be stirred or souflet’d or merangued into being.

the reinforcement of me recognizing my self as an artist, or at least one in the disposition of an artist: the true artist follows through, or does so passionately, with a fiery fire cavalcade of creativity and emotion and intent. those accidents that are everywhere! unintended, splendid, far-reaching implicated in the moments of…

all the fuzz comes in, jet flying outside above, competes with yawn seizures and nervous tongue swabs for corned teeth, hunger piped through enzymes, interpreted through stems, relayed to agents, without vision’s lens–a separate sense! of just a yum, and mmm, a slurp, a hrmm, friend of ole’, factioned with your, out of a shoppe, we hope to hop, with gullivers filled, with brand new slop. da duh da duh da da da da duh; on the streets sir, keep it on the street! “sirree,” don’t y’ mean? ohh, wut of it? make it to be a purty past-time, eh? labeled with recognizable kwalities, ehh?

ok, acceptance, capping coalescing desires with pertinent, immediate musts. and… scene.

[written early 2010]

it’s just held in this micro-sphere, you see?

it’s all right here, really! i guess you don’t believe me.

see, it’s all about items. you may not be able to see them, you may not be able to care about them, but they’re there and they’re doing things that likely you cannot do. they will go parasite para-sailing (weekend retreat). they will hibernate on the weekends because they don’t realize that weekends are fun-bearing days. they will eat and eat and eat. and eat. they have taken the classes imposed upon them, in good nature and with what humour they have.

here self-flaggelation is not a crime. we try to encourage beneficial practices. we’re here to foster, after all. we try not to make our care rare, you see. you see that, right?

but that’s not all! not even close–but we are making progress.

when we say that they’re loco, we’re really just happy for them! you see, they move. a lot. that is, if movement can be defined by moving from one place to another. of course they don’t move far. but how can they? they’re here in this sphere.

the microscopes were generous donations from Dr. Shalworth. he lives in what he describes as "the finest shanty around", but it’s really just a house, up the street, and maybe around a corner or two. anyway, he likes a pipe smoke, he likes his gray hair, he likes protozoa, and he makes a mean apple pie. i mean, a mean apple pie.

anyway, back to the daycare. after Hibernap #1, we begin the afternoon with a series of classes–all voluntary, of course–that are there to enlighten and enrich these tinies. some of the choices include Vacuum Patterns, Economy of Consumption, Host-Parasite Relations, and General Play Techniques. it’s a good program we have here.

we’re equal-opportunity. of course, we have to exercise some level of authority, but this is really more of a pragmatic matter. we really care about these protozoa. we’re pro-proliferation, and we’ve had but only a few scant setbacks that were largely out of our control and heavily resided in matters of scope. environments are residences, and we’re all our own kings, at least when we really inspect ourselves. it’s the kingdoms that need work.

(use provided contact info on flyer for more information)

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===

[written early 2010]

treed landscape with buildings upright. sitting down with girl whom is wanted, pastly, immediately, to be. the worst of the food is consumed, drank, or otherwise rended on corrugated plates of frisbee-like demeanor. now that we’re poisoned we sit and wait for it to make us sorry for listening to our brain chems. we should starve minutely from time to time, to return to proper edible nourishment, preferably in good company and preferably not in a boxed room. we can stand, but we don’t. we tell stories of squirrels and circuses. and what animals are fed. i once asked a little girl what she thinks turkeys eat, and she delighted in her quick response, "chicken!". if dinosaurs were birds, and birds were dinosaurs, we’d have the same number of current species, except one would have been formerly the other, and the other would have latterly been the former. i’d fly on a unicorned raptor with jesus, and jesus would be so into showing me his new unicorn-raptor basket that he uses to keep his cadbury eggs and other treats in. it’d be a fine day for flying, and we’d more than likely stop at a few glades and meadows in our day’s adventures, stopping to say hi to a few young friends on this special sparsely-populated lush planet, vibrant with greens and yellows and water blues, but also soft with pastel pinks, purples, and orange dream-sicle derivatives. the air would never be uphill, always like it was its own wings. i’d spend a dream eternity with one love, another with a never-loved, here or there with happiness smiles, usually in the sun, but also in underwater caverns of the swimmiest water, with that special type of oxygen that evolved to never need gills for proper extraction. the sounds of these stoned places! dark grey blended brown and film of purple influence just carved there, there to hold this liquid substance so it can hold us–it allows bouncing frequencies to be olympically achieved and then there’s the water’s collaborative stroke; sine-wave cave, tangent-tsunami of pleasure drops, co-mingled natural physical splendor that we get in our heads.

we stand, poisoned; it’s a damn fine afternoon on a damn fine stretch of land, and we can’t waste it by rotating in the same spot. we up. we toss. see birds content to walk and chirp on the same sidewalk i walk.

what i wouldn’t give for some french-fries with mentholated seasoning.

+

===

device-failure, you are supposed to tip me off to dreamland awareness and hence lucidity, but really you just aggravate a moment here of my day, a moment there of my day. you are the product of a shoddy complacency variable tied to constants and other variables out of man’s control, that is to say, in Nature’s control. but really, on smaller scales (Nature seems less influential here, in a heartrending twist of common laity perception), you should have no place except at timed intervals in which an agent of recourse is immediately summonable. i should laugh you off, though if i’m laughing all the time, my face will hurt, and then when i want to laugh for real my face may still hurt, and then my laughing will be impeded by unwelcome pain, but i’ll probably be able to laugh it off, lapping up the warm moments of smiles and shared social air. but then at a point more laughter pain will just wiggle in and spit-blur smudge a great grain of an enjoyable moment, a feeling. tie your exaggerations to a stick with knotted rationality fiber; if you do, do it with extreme imagination and premeditated precision; these are trying times and vocal space should be freer of vexings.