I liked the idea of recursivity from class, so I'm going recursive on your face. Yes, your face specifically, and I apologize if it gets messy, but I'll be honest: it might get messy, which is why I'm using your face and not my own. I'll grab some phrases from pieces of things I've written in my Queen of Hearts chick journal, and recurse them until they die.
Tha' Phrases From Which I will Choose:
[1]
"Concomitant Marginalization of Women."
[2]
"Warmed troughs are like moored thought."
[3]
"Humming birds want to have a proboscis more than I want to be dead."
[4]
"Flocks of ibis on old tractors in cleared fields sliding into sawgrass"
[5]
"Horse pills for a non horse."
This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius. It is also time to make something. I've been making lots of poems lately, putting a lot of hard work into it, and I think I just want to take a few crazy phrases and rearrange them until they break. Just for fun, because this kind of exercise is right up my alley and the gods all know I need to rest.
By: David the Mathis: Queen of Hearts
Hummingbirds want to have a proboscis more than I want to be dead, and I want to be dead a lot less than I want hummingbirds to have proboscises, because the proboscis would make eating anything much like taking horse pills for non-horses, because most non-horses have smaller than horse-sized openings for taking pills and I can see where that would make me want to be dead. Dead like flocks of ibis on old tractors in cleared fields sliding into sawgrass because sawgrass sticks into the air like a proboscis, sucking all those hummingbirds down like horse pills, except sawgrass is a non-horse and the tractors warm troughs which are like moored thought, thoughtfully mooring the hummingbirds to tractors in cleared fields that slide into sawgrass of proboscis horsepills in flocks of dead hummingbirds who only wanted to have a proboscises and the concomitant marginalization of women. Women marginalize tractors concomitantly in the warm thoughts of a moored trough flanked with flocks of ibis on tractors in cleared fields sliding into dead sawgrass, sucked by hummingbird proboscises full of horsepills and horses and the bald ibis which is different from the ibis, which is different from the crested ibis which doesn't have a proboscis but wants to be dead more than a hummingbird wants to have a proboscis that sucks flocks of tractors warming troughs in a moored woman marginalized concomitantly with horse pills eaten by flocks of the non-horse ibis which differs from the bald ibis in many features, primarily in the area of the proboscis.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
P.S. I just typed the word "proboscis" so much that it neither looks or sounds like a word anymore, which is why I stopped.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Night of the Living Junkyard Part 5
Time to unload a shit ton of awesome on you peeps.
[1]
"I'm as hip as a hippo; I gots more thighs than Thighland!"
[2]
"The cumcry is the pledge of allegiance."
[3]
"Men can get raped. I don't care if they don't have a vagina."
[4]
"What is the thing to be possessed?"
[1]
"I'm as hip as a hippo; I gots more thighs than Thighland!"
[2]
"The cumcry is the pledge of allegiance."
[3]
"Men can get raped. I don't care if they don't have a vagina."
[4]
"What is the thing to be possessed?"
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Second Freewrite for, what week is it now? 5?
Way too many weeks. I covered a soccer game this weekend, and I hope it doesn't suck balls like an unskilled whore, but I suspect--and quite heavily at that--that it does, which is a shame, because I sure did enjoy the game. I like watching soccer, I just don't completely know the rules.
Anyway, I wrote a poem about eating Crayons, and you should check it out.
A Poem Written in Regards to Eating Crayons
by: David Mathis
I've never eaten crayons, but I imagine they taste just like hot glue after it isn't hot anymore, or
tile grout without the sand, or maybe even the plastic they use to make cheap children's toys.
I don't want to drink glue or eat Play-Dough, but I know a lot of people who have, and they never
died from it, so I guess I would recover from it.
Not like the day I first tried cream cheese, gagged, almost threw it up at the table, never
touched the stuff again. A piece of me died that day, and I'll never even get it back.
I don't especially know how cream cheese is made, but I assume it has something to do with
making a pact with Lucifer for Baal's milk and churning that into a thicker form full of wailing
and gnashing of teeth.
I think crabs should taste more like I imagine spiders must taste--like cellophane wrapped around fiberglass,
wrapped around packing peanuts, covered in butter. I would add a dash of Oregano, not because it needs it,
but because it looks nice on the plate, if not in the stomach.
I'm not ever going to put crayons in my mouth, never taste all the colors of the rainbow in solid form slide
down my throat like an over-thick rainbow cascading down the sides of a Sarlacc, chasing bounty hunters
in a quest to make all things more beautiful, like Unicorns prancing in fields with tattoos on their asses
so as to assert their individuality and not at all to fall in with a crowd called Care Bears who have their
tattoos on their stomach's in complete defiance to the style of the Yakuza who usually tattoo everything except
the stomach and do it the old fashioned ways with needles and hammers.
The have powers too, like spilling razzmatazz red all over shadow which is different from black, which
is different from fuzzy wuzzy, which is a different color than beaver, which is completely different from
the shade called brown because the Yakuza only tattoo in fuzzy wuzzy, razzamatazz, and shadow.
Anyway, I wrote a poem about eating Crayons, and you should check it out.
A Poem Written in Regards to Eating Crayons
by: David Mathis
I've never eaten crayons, but I imagine they taste just like hot glue after it isn't hot anymore, or
tile grout without the sand, or maybe even the plastic they use to make cheap children's toys.
I don't want to drink glue or eat Play-Dough, but I know a lot of people who have, and they never
died from it, so I guess I would recover from it.
Not like the day I first tried cream cheese, gagged, almost threw it up at the table, never
touched the stuff again. A piece of me died that day, and I'll never even get it back.
I don't especially know how cream cheese is made, but I assume it has something to do with
making a pact with Lucifer for Baal's milk and churning that into a thicker form full of wailing
and gnashing of teeth.
I think crabs should taste more like I imagine spiders must taste--like cellophane wrapped around fiberglass,
wrapped around packing peanuts, covered in butter. I would add a dash of Oregano, not because it needs it,
but because it looks nice on the plate, if not in the stomach.
I'm not ever going to put crayons in my mouth, never taste all the colors of the rainbow in solid form slide
down my throat like an over-thick rainbow cascading down the sides of a Sarlacc, chasing bounty hunters
in a quest to make all things more beautiful, like Unicorns prancing in fields with tattoos on their asses
so as to assert their individuality and not at all to fall in with a crowd called Care Bears who have their
tattoos on their stomach's in complete defiance to the style of the Yakuza who usually tattoo everything except
the stomach and do it the old fashioned ways with needles and hammers.
The have powers too, like spilling razzmatazz red all over shadow which is different from black, which
is different from fuzzy wuzzy, which is a different color than beaver, which is completely different from
the shade called brown because the Yakuza only tattoo in fuzzy wuzzy, razzamatazz, and shadow.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Post Title
Yeah, so I went to a hayride...
I feel like a hick. Except in a good way, because the experience was absolutely miserable, and for whatever reason, I think that makes it worth writing about. Yep. I am one sad dude.
IHOP: 3am
by: David Mathis
They say that Rick used to switch with his wife every year taking their son on the hayride,
except every time it was Rick's turn, he would say that he did it last year so that he never even
rode in the back of the truck full of kids with flashlights, running beams over tall trees like
the reflection of ocean waves on the underside of boats.
The problem with fire is that it always seems to warm only one side of a person at at time;
the other side is left out in the cold when roasting marshmallows and getting closer only makes
one side even hotter while the other side still freezes, but my God, when cardboard is thrown
on top of the pit, the flames stand proud for a few minutes before they crouch back down over their work
intimately and leave the fuel to glow with gilded edges and it all looks just like heaven will.
When the wind blows, the chicken houses conspire to light the bellows. They stream currents of rotting
pumpkin spice lattes into the swooning sun like a punch to the gut from a skilled boxer--
just as air leaves the lungs, the houses push product through shipping businesses and everyone,
yes everyone, gasps in horror but its already too late to ignore, except everyone ties and shuffles feet
and pretends like the sun is high overhead and the clouds are white puffy shapes that resemble puppies
or totem poles, or Oprah catching butterflies in the rain except its night and they stumble over someone
who is stargazing, tracing new constellations with a finger which is way, way too fat to only touch one star
at a time and therefore connects clusters of stars to make bundled up balloon formations tied together in
one giant knot called Luna who smiles with big teeth.
Later, piles of pancakes, fat with time lay in hibernation on a table under a spotlight and they're so
very delicious. Each and every one is special, just like a child, but they all taste the same.
The smear of headlights occasionally stutter by, broken by street signs.
Outside, it's just cold enough for the window to mist over,
laden and drooping like sleepy eyelids.
I feel like a hick. Except in a good way, because the experience was absolutely miserable, and for whatever reason, I think that makes it worth writing about. Yep. I am one sad dude.
IHOP: 3am
by: David Mathis
They say that Rick used to switch with his wife every year taking their son on the hayride,
except every time it was Rick's turn, he would say that he did it last year so that he never even
rode in the back of the truck full of kids with flashlights, running beams over tall trees like
the reflection of ocean waves on the underside of boats.
The problem with fire is that it always seems to warm only one side of a person at at time;
the other side is left out in the cold when roasting marshmallows and getting closer only makes
one side even hotter while the other side still freezes, but my God, when cardboard is thrown
on top of the pit, the flames stand proud for a few minutes before they crouch back down over their work
intimately and leave the fuel to glow with gilded edges and it all looks just like heaven will.
When the wind blows, the chicken houses conspire to light the bellows. They stream currents of rotting
pumpkin spice lattes into the swooning sun like a punch to the gut from a skilled boxer--
just as air leaves the lungs, the houses push product through shipping businesses and everyone,
yes everyone, gasps in horror but its already too late to ignore, except everyone ties and shuffles feet
and pretends like the sun is high overhead and the clouds are white puffy shapes that resemble puppies
or totem poles, or Oprah catching butterflies in the rain except its night and they stumble over someone
who is stargazing, tracing new constellations with a finger which is way, way too fat to only touch one star
at a time and therefore connects clusters of stars to make bundled up balloon formations tied together in
one giant knot called Luna who smiles with big teeth.
Later, piles of pancakes, fat with time lay in hibernation on a table under a spotlight and they're so
very delicious. Each and every one is special, just like a child, but they all taste the same.
The smear of headlights occasionally stutter by, broken by street signs.
Outside, it's just cold enough for the window to mist over,
laden and drooping like sleepy eyelids.
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