more shit i wrote

tuesday on mars

not knowing where to begin it was begun in the middle, though one did not know where one was going.
wandering through the woods lost can be fun if one is an octopus.
how delightful it is to be.
rain falling from the sky falls from the sky when it falls, from the sky.
is there a beginning to this madness. perhaps only during the middle of the latter part and then only on tuesdays.


two paragraphs put together with axle grease

repetition repeated ad nauseam. then redundancy walked in and shot repetition in its third syllable. fortunately the maid was able to clean up the ink without using harsh detergent.
the godfather came in and said what's that bad smell. he was told by fornication that it was mario. he said o.k. and left in search of the bracing smell of nothingness.


we now pause for a commercial break

a window that was addicted to quotation marks ate my shoes while waiting for the bus. its frame was made of varnished grape manure so it was unemployed for most summers unless there was a jewish pope running for public orifice. my walls saw what was happening and had all of my socks shipped to peru to keep them out of the whipped cream that i use as underarm deodorant. after this my floor and ceiling had anticlimactic orgasms.


witty dialogue that would pass between dan quayle and calvin coolidge if they should meet