Thu, 19 May 2005

One Thousand One-Liners (one)
If you won’t fuck me for my beauty, then at least fuck me for my genius.

For a magician you’re not very mysterious.

Refer all inquiries to the solar transmissions department.

I’d hoped you’d sleep through the gunfire.

To unsubscribe from the poor-you automated sympathy list (poor-you-list@smallestviolin.net) please send a free-verse poem of at least two thousand lines on the topics of a) why your job sucks, b) why your fuck-partner/lack-of-fuck-partner sucks, c) why you suck, and we’ll remove you from the list just as soon as we can round up four nails.

Every word you say is killing me.

The sort of opulence that looks ordered from catalogues.

I’ll sink the midwest to prove my powers.

People disappear all the time.

Nobody plans on becoming addicted to placenta.

If you went back into the past, and you told somebody from twenty years ago that the proliferation of technology in the workplace would lead to longer hours, weekend and holiday mandatory time, unpaid overtime, benefit-free positions, instant firings w/o warning or backpay, and a sense of disposability only slightly less corrosive than the panicky terror of waking up at four am and realizing your life has passed the point where options were open and directions could be changed, they’d laugh, and say “But what about the Jetsons?”.

I need the precise date and time when you stopped loving me.

That’s how she became the pre-teen queen of the hygene scene.

Meaningless bit of self-indulgent fluff.

No, i gave up writing novels to concentrate on my telepathy service.

I can see poop, but that doesn’t mean i’ll eat it.

And her love for me is undying, so long as i’m at least six states away.

As uncomfortable as your doctor giving you a hug.

He walked but did not stumble as he leapt up into the air, thinking he would be pulled skyward on an updraft into the trees, his hands weaving the willow branches into shields and nets to keep him safe, lost in a cloud of leaves, continuing still farther up along the trunk until the wind pulled him on his new wings from any tether, his fingers spread out to help pilot his path, the shoes falling from his feet and spinning slowly back to the ground, proof of the story, as though there were places to hide in the clouds, but that isn’t true at all, and his leap made no connection with anything but gravity, and the steady gait of his steps on his abbreviated return belie his inability to really believe in such a notion as unassisted flight, just a decoy and a distaction on the way to the grocery store.

And that’s why i shat in your pants.

I stood there for hours, poking the bird with a stick, as though if i found the right spot the bird would get up and fly away.

We like your funny stuff better.

And you ran, and you ran, and you ran, and i just couldn’t follow you anymore.

So my minister actually used the phrase "branding strategy" in a sermon today.

The problem with being in a coma is you can’t take lunch breaks with friends in order to find out what they’ve been up to; it’s an all or nothing sort of lifestyle.

Constantly in search of a captive audience, she made a terrible place to hide.

Can you really see my veins through this top?

He kept telling me the sky was a place where you could put things, where they would stay until you needed them again.

Something something chest explodes something crystal nerve lattice something something butcher-surgeons something suction mouths something something something.

James has a notion as to why the voice of the God could not be recorded by modern digital devices, but I so totally didn’t wanna hear it, I was just so fucking sick of this endless stream of prattle and halfassed pseudo-thought and listening to that stuff in my head all the time, every single day, it just made me wish I was dead.

I was in the closet on too many drugs, crying, and i begged god to remove my memory, i didn’t want to be wise, i didn’t want to know, and that’s why i am the way i am today.

He bought his personality in installments; he had a few left to make.

Shelly used to say you can’t oversharpen an axe, but she learned that was all bullshit when the zombies came.

My whole life has been the smile you give to a dying child.

Like most parents, we had decided Shelalah should go to a cannibalism-intensive school, where the gifted feed on the special.

You’re always watching yourself from the other side of the room.

Just because I’m a genius doesn’t mean I’m smart, necessarily.

How long did you watch yourself when you had my eyes?

Her dreams filled with a violence without restraint or consequence, the organs unfolded in the sun, the smell of blood thick in the air.

The exit is hidden in the exit.

Somehow, he had convinced himself that, with a serious enough wound, she wouldn’t have the heart to leave him, and in the heightened emotional state she’d be in he would be able to bring himself to a heroic bravery as to his condition, which would frame his newfound honesty and declarations of a love he had always felt but was always afraid to admit to, and all of that would be well worth this time now, sitting here, on her porch, holding his hand over the wound in his kidney.

When was the last time you touched an old person?

What’s the point of even being a writer if you’re not essentially interested in fucking with people?

The beat was working on multiple time-axes, she said, which was why it made everybody feel so weird.

Gravity is a myth.

Sarah couldn’t stop thinking about the night of her child’s conception, the mess inside her, the drip and stain of it, and she couldn’t shake the notion that the adorable infant on her lap stank of semen.

Where’s the fucking race war you’ve been promising?

Rethinking the viral community.

Your spine is an antenna.

They had one of those boxed “Future Parties”, where everybody takes turns acting out what they’ll be doing in a thousand years, though my inability to act out rot and decay got me a big fat zero for a score.

He came like a hummingbird, and she couldn’t stop giggling.

To hell with you squares; 4-H girls is where it’s at.

Jub-jub children sniffing candy like synthetic seed caught in the jaws slathered in superheated saliva breaking down the sucrose stuck in the gut and rooting the kids corkscrewed to the floor with overfed topheavy stupors staring scared as sitters with filed teeth and cleavers close in on their prey.

Consider also the smaller and yet still critical sub-harnesses used to keep the massive girth of obesity model Fairok Productivity from dragging across the glass-strewn runway, an obvious no-no as blood-trails have been a bad joke in the fashion world ever since Damien Morrander’s "Calligraphy of Agony" coup, back when no well-dressed organ dealer would leave the vat without a hurdy-gurdy and a camel-headed cane, as unlike today’s wiz-kid designers who download chunks of prior designer’s credit histories looking for inspirational purchasing patterns, David David tends to extract his epiphanies with a three-foot length of steel pipe and silver hooks, which is part of what makes him such a crowd favorite on the Darwinian Combative Fashions circuit.

I prayed for you, and I love you, but you’ll never know.

Fuck you all.
(12:09.05.19.2005) [/alpha] #