The number 5 has strange properties. What they are is up to you to decide. And bananas can’t hide from the fact there there are glasses of light in the universe and that these very entities lick the milk of life off of. And the number is something very important to the process of licking this milk because the milk makes no sense with the light of not being the person who kills others for fun because these  are just words. Just words. Just words. These are the things that I think of when I’m taking towels to the face by some dude with brown face and blues eyes and a beauty-spot-speckled face. He asked me for five euros. I gave him one.


Sphere With Blinking Lights

We knew we had something. It sat there, a sphere with blinking lights, and half-molten toy cars attached to it. And there was a sock, hanging from a nail.

“Should we eat it?” My brother was fat.

“You wanna eat it?”

There was green gas coming out of it, through a hole, an outward perforation.

My brother plugged it with his finger for a moment, and it condensed into green moisture, and he licked it. “Tastes like dinosaur.” My brother was mentally retarded.

A woodpecker popped through the hole. I wish it laughed, but instead, coughing up green gas, its feathers flaking like dandruff, and its eyes twitching, it flopped on the floor and died.

“Should we eat it?”

Castle of Plastic, Not Glass

There’s only two things that make me me and that’s the thing that time really likes to think. That once I was a puppy with no eyes remember? And then I was a person in a box of glass — some say castle, but it’s more of a box really. And if we’re really honest, it’s plastic, not glass. Weird huh?

But anyway I never made much sense when I rambled; I can barely make any sense when I don’t ramble, you know? I also use that as a crutch a lot — you know? I know, of course I know, I’m the one writing this. Now I’m talking to meeeeeself. I like myself. Miiself. Myshelf. There’s so many ways of saying it.

That’s the thing — when you sit down to write something, there’s no excuse for writer’s block, fucking write whatever the fuck comes to your head, nigga. It might hurt someone somewhere, like that word that I wrote back there, but maybe it’ll make you a better writer, so who the fuck cares or whatever, you know what I’m sayin, nigga. You also find voices in your head that you didn’t know were there; of course these voices may be caricatures of some random group of people. It’s stereotyping or whatever. I don’t know.

If I offended you: me so solly.