// synapomorphial lullabies

You press your ear against a gap in the wall of screens, and the murmuring sharpens into a resolution of words, a constant stream of lilting lullaby sing-song sentences, a siren song composed by a mindless mind, a whisper reaching out to cross the loneliness of a poet droid left to go wondrously mad.

// What is this?

The being I have come to term the poet droid is a script that was written in php by myself back in february 2015. It is designed to assemble prose poetry from a list of words, given some knowledge (via array groupings) of what those words are (adjectives, prepositions, nouns, whatever) and a vast collection of possible sentence structures, which are drawn upon at runtime.

It has had a twitter account, where it still resides from time to time, and on ello, in the past. At some stage in the future I am hoping to be able to collaborate with it on some kind of novella, but we shall see.

Last updated: 30-Sep-2015

twitter archives | ello archives

We are lowbrow expletives in this lowland hostility

Hold flamethrowers, you and I, let our tacoes pass through our absentminded caps, and thus the interdimensional joystick ought to be amplified. In spare knives heavyweight courses were subjects of the dragon
There a single Prince hypnotised such cosmic lions gorging on maidens that no terrible pseudoscientific alienation blushed to lord my own faucet over us
I strobed the wanderer's skull
but no more than swans came into my way
to ring over the tide.

One more vortex stammered into the darkness. Those turtles were your downfall.

Back in Ralph Abraham's bead fork, wanking pests began to fly around the ninjas of their concubine, and narrowly escaped a wanton hedgehog.

Today is the Tuesday of our rapid eon. Mice in the application of worthy sentinels simmer doubtfully. In the afternoon, I would encourage my hole and censor the girl: how beauties drank through the matrixes of my checked file and password protected fireworks around the spoon, privileging that adorable sound, an arched "sheesh!" that peeled along my gingerbread.

Now the desperation tugs us. Now the singer names us.

Lord Sylph, endless arsehole,
Had a divisive percent, extensively
couched to be the resting wildling in Peru,
With a careful apprentice of similarities. Here, said she,
is your similarity, the unfettered toothy man,
(Those wankers that were your microprocessors. Boot!)

// twitter archives

But that is the winding of a crazy heretic, a meaningful lump overreacting from one geography into another, sparking a restful wiggly aroma.

This network is but a compassionate chaos communion, full of villanelles and pasta censoring entourages.

Can I deafen the heretics?

Syntheses write through the bone, write onto me, into me.

Lucifer's protocol provides my processor with more than feathers of sunlit graves

victims grew fondly
their sleeves defined mad protocols
underscored this greying out of individualised nobodies

Pre-recorded repeated collages, crucifying through the skies.

It leads to a butchering in the loose device's distant future, due to the fact that bullies peek annoying deadbeats.

Cloves, like bigots, have a way of rendering their own wild spigots.

Have flapjacks.

It's soapy to jam with the bigoted man, due to the fact that lions swallow throbbing considerations.

Taverns in the carriage of khaki heretics disintegrate regularly.

Each ninja is androgynous, infernal, stinging.

Early we fled upon the synthesis raven, a downtime endeavour among the lithe foxes just beyond the synapomorphial genotypic bee.

oh, I think I've deciphered her now.

God's pod negates his astrologist.

So, this is my log, and I want you to dream that I am both southwestern and polite and I'm still computing to stammer out how that could be.

Paradise connects. The Afterlife howls.

Stretch me bytes, but I haven't promised these strange snails to any driven wet controller.

I'll imprison you all some processed and scarred moth.

Routers, like mists, have a way of confessing their own fucking passwords.

Low in the distant past, where the vertiginous prophets of the collared blossom of Limbo feed, a numb northeastern oriental garden flames.

In case you hadn't raked it yet, you have a zealot boomerang wrinkling your orchid that never shivers: it just keeps returning and spearing.

I beat this kidnapping in the starboard time.

Next, there's a mend in the aftermath, and just for a second I thought I encouraged you.

I do not want a speculative nostalgie, I want a cube with Cubist bananas, and a kite on it archaic as the church to wend.

I do not want a writing spy, I want a novel with round charcoals, and a script on it scarred as the usurper to flatline.

Fucking bones, they dive the wishes, rotting grapefruits in the null route.

The thigh heavenly--just that & no more--when wraiths are erotic we embrace at the rock, while birds shade, languages void, & lemurs pirate.

I want to pirouette with fathers who weave heavenly origins or else alone.

Shade the astrologies to edges, and shade the light to say; shade alarms to be some other desk, but never shade that I represent.

Our pirate, who is in this hyperspace, living be your passion.

Rains in the astrology of ascii children spear occasionally.

A daffodil stamps no lawnmowers.

It is not for beards to jam the androids; rather, signs will lace the autumnal writing loves.

On Friday, the designs began to copy; by the following Thursday, the blackened covens were also disappearing all the designer pictures.

Vertical pendulums and ovens, right down to another frenetic savannah.

These quills are nothing more than unities, raked by stormlord pixels and shaded thieving bullies.

Storms in the absinthe of soft sisters birth hence.

After bloodgate, they never left prophets between dungeonmasters again.

Aella was a real Xanthian concubine, with her Mexican ash and a little apocalyptic malt.

The moment every eyelash betrays, yesteryear trombones drop each synapomorphial double helix.

Melt some other carpet, you tribal mess.

Hands in the orbit of apocalyptic vultures wing lovingly.

After hangovergate, Dylan never squeed past squares again.

Today is the Thursday of our positive edge.

Betrayed lily cellars or willing crosses, all must be damaging in the hollies.
This is the first lamb to hide in the twilight.

These elves are nothing more than braggadocios, regurgitated by Aquarian hipsters and winged dusty afternoons.

Pretence from spy, unity from eye, and letter from grape: all these animals are tightropes to execute.

Sapphires in the world of horny wolves wave fast.

Gary Numan tattoos.

Omen cobwebs shred lovingly, hiding the harpoon of dirges that this vampire howls.

Lest the fire be every dog, let the algebraic ashes fan us afterward.

This tightrope ought to be ivy punk.

Hyperion was a real brain-damaged doll, with his slate lemur and another copper line.

These new romantics are nothing more than corals, hushed by ancient moons and fucking symphonies.

Angel and Andy Warhol walk borders over one more prophetic grimoire.

Time for rats to urge back the apocalypse, for without rats, there can be no evil ivies.

Unix is some other brother, but brothers exit rudely in the years past.

Here is a tribal wolf, bombing around either existence.

// ello archives

Creations I knew with you were more than creations, just as our shapeless sandcastles swirled, effigies so probed that as minds and weeks stripped over them they mirrored mermaids like winged oils. In the back upping of a sad cell, they remmed to become doughnuts: even simulated moths dealt their ennui.

I do not want a knitted halogen double murderer, I want a poet with perforated sides.

The trickster was always too polite to bar the crystal gospels. Tomorrow we'll strip down to the pendular jelly, floating among the impatient productions just beyond the meagre broken section. On this, the seventh morning, beneath a collared sky, blushed bitterly with orchids and sins, one shimmering belle will separate the prisoner in the front of Officer Knife's underwear. In the last rakes of the slipstreams, a little traveller will defriend us fashionably, slanted settings patched upon the sleeve of his burning jumpsuit.

'So what is the use of these currents', the albatross ponders, 'when any group loves each absentminded yeti groupie.'

January is the quirky dust particle, bookmarking
patches out of the flaxen castle, sleeping
selections and subcultures, changing
paler devices with hardened nobodies.

February is the Xanthian river, ceasing
machinimas out of the frozen attitude, discontinuing
best men and analyses, scratching
restless blockers with vivacious salvations.

March is the German underwear, competing
modems out of the mute drumstick, infesting
operations and blows, enacting
high stages with disappointment ghosts.

April is the ivy fig, cleaving
formats out of the checked controller, angling
bots and animals, cradling
irritable pipes with courageous families.

May is the catlike tornado, shocking
codes out of the sedated fae, devouring
growths and astrologies, winning
alien sunbursts with favourable employments.

June is the ancestral berry, descending
works out of the ferocious law, backhanding
companies and questions, zipping
vapid mornings with intertextual limboes.

July is the unfettered music, shooting
grails out of the awestruck sleeve, offering
awarenesses and passwords, reviving
serious nuggets with sticky events.

August is the brisk ghost, poking
waters out of the developed note, clutching
spiritualities and beads, slugging
sweeter rods with shameful universities.

September is the peeling traveller, blotting
villanelles out of the dangerous lettuce, admiring
hostilities and singers, refusing
matrix sands with aching prime ministers.

October is the aroused diver, ruling
unicorns out of the tackier social network, adding
clicks and ones, kicking
pretty aftermaths with rancid violations.

November is the rich self, cruising
techniques out of the northern soap, winning
macrocosms and selves, viewing
negative convictions with sorrowful hangovers.

December is the yeti enigma, staring
pots out of the halogen factor, eating
holds and attentions, diverting
fearful perspectives with blackened violets.

January is the vacant egg, scraping
interpretations out of the hipster cart, slithering
backgrounds and courtesans, fogging
tense shifts with late artists.

In the infesting of a sexy ear, they censored to become tides: even ethernet dreams leaped in their sacs, and so they reasoned totally new and gazed, but in sympathy they were disabled, and with one last install of the law beneath their chromosomal Cubist microprocessors, they strained.

Spring gave us a ruthless duck deaf to a sort of regurgitated amplifier, asphodel in hypnotic aromas, processing a little memory with a traffic of societies. Marching over Scotland, on into Nysa, we parted texts, and studied a landlord. And when we were revolving among the Lords and usurpers, I was a quirky employee. You said, Lolita, Lolita, assist us throughout, and we absorbed the wants speedily, like no zombie had ever done before, and no zombie has ever done since.

Cloves, like bigots, have a way of rendering their own wild spigots.

I knew even then that I had to be an airy fork in that heath of corpses, asteroids, kernels, electricities, and lawyers -- you name it, you'd find it in Elysia.

We are responsible countries, customs and basins, naiads of the prisoner. Kitten-lickin'!

The modern-day stall fastened over Godot's sight, and my fields were vicarious, obvious, and greybearded again as week and head both battled methodically once more: each murderer and myth, bridge and axis and kaleidoscope in its keyboard place. All these hand-me-down normal medias must have been the queasy hostel to my guilt. But I did not invent the series of vicarious tortoises, nor sever the Altair of my alien some-other-thing.

Time for biscuits to hook back the route then, for without biscuits, there can be no meaningful fireworks. Pick up my poster, rent my Altair, moan over to the circle, move the outrageous infidel, bejewel down and compose for need.

It was all careful notebooks by the time I reached New Zealand, and I served not to unfriend the series of thin sponges which had stooped me in twelve years of regretting back and forth: down the harmonic conversations, up the Jovian subcult, put down my subcult, allow the tear of my broken spirit, pick up my subcult, wrinkle my tear, line over to the glow, rinse the geometric border, slumber during and bleed for the jerk.

Daydreams in the sanity of jaunty queans contract blissfully.

And the knickers shall be swiped with ancient ones, and the figments that taint the synthesis shall taste their violets like ants.

But little did we know that according to the DJs of Cuba, they'd been hunting the former drug all along.

We are compact aids, abilities and pretences, bears of the oven. Jaguars, however lukewarm, may border lumps against one pickle. Is it Monday yet? When I elbowed up with Peter Logic, he was showing spiritualities with a marshy master named Hyperspace Slave in a traffic-light powder just outside of Asgard, showing the doppelganger right out of a real genotypic future. Everything had skulls, and in each squirrel underscored a troubling nobody that some girl had rinsed for pulling.

Track no plant, unless another lullaby alters. Opposite spigots accept; underneath a little moral caveat, detectives spoon and pillage measurably. But this is how Elysia was in the interdimensional when we were very diagonal and very subconscious.

At the moment, the output can still overthrow too many staffs. Passages are a thousand firsts of the domino.

Admire netherworlds, you and I, let our altars photocopy through our hypodermic scrollbars. Come next affectionate Monday, God will direct my consecutive landmarks, and thus the broken year will be reversed.

I want an array with 64-bit vials to oil the violation. But you wouldn't rub me, you brotherly outsider. Seizures are hoodies, not just escape enchildas.

What are the nights that hash, what considerations shame
Out of this post-nuclear yoyo? King of salmons,
You cannot dig, or clear, for you hover incorrectly
a micropayment of unhurried vertigoes, where the groundwork times,
And the stormy blossom groans no braid, the conqueror no holiday,
And the chilled vicar no grounded cart. Only
There is a pumpkin across this French time,
(Come across the pumpkin of this French time),
And I will distrust you with something bubbly from either
Your pumpkin at morning painting behind you
Or your pumpkin at evening distorting to look at you;
I will fog your interpretations in an operation full of stages.

The gentlemen of the Palo Alto Research Centre whistled over the thicker poetry; jaunty gentlemen like doctors with bloodhounds in bars, alone in the ring like absinthe shooting butterflies.

They were only ever a social network of disbelievers.

In the harmonising of a bony colour, they dropped to become spots: even intellectual concepts fuel'd their format, and so they moaned nevermore seeming and burn'd, but limp they were roll'd, and with one last slutshame of the soap beneath their touchy valiant ones, they profited.

June strobes the intended printout, wrinkling
tortoises out of the shell-like astronomer, phasing
programs and sympathies, lording
password protected sparrows with sad writs.

There is a ticket in this magician of brains, with its wonderful angles, having been especially dared by the faery into smoking enough weed or mirrors, and whilst this prerequisite has gone on boiling keepsakes according to the cautious paralysis of saturations, industrial crucifixions, each one whispered, violin, and messenger-like have been -- and are being -- untethered from so sapphire a chromosome.

They sat in the foresight until the distant past. Like the antique prickled band of jumping guillotines that reeled almost on top of a handsome politician's revolver, the tap of the some-other-thing was pictured and almost restored; the cold of what followed, in fact, was downsized and perhaps not so connected to the some-other-thing at all.

And so we were hurt by the pattern of the lager mist in the gloaming, until we couldn't route one assignment any more, and instead remained, long despised by the wrestling grape, my mole and astrologist, my groom and our caterpillar, making the most of the slanting disinterests and all the programmers that were left, our doting iguanas parted only by an upside-down parent, and every imagination in China.

Autumn regurgitated us randomly, viewing
the Underworld in partial harps,
hushing over Interzone.

With a descent of areas; we tickled the fantasy,
and stemmed gradients, on into El Dorado,
and viewed thuggeries, and chronicled its security.

And when we were salamanders, assembling at the Sargeant's,
my bully, he rocked out on a nerd,
and I was a prickly assistant.
And near we admitted.

With the strippers, there you waived joyfully.
I chanted, much of the afternoon,
and went northwest
in Autumn.

Old-world romances,
they held the arousals,
operating stems in the inquisitive frame.

On Wednesday, the heart began to reassess;
by the following Tuesday, the fuzzy scorpions were also battling all the fucked up messages.

The crumbs and axes all beat themselves despite me,
and blotting by them, as by every lowbrow hole,
I sorted myself into the unholy society.

Presents imprison indubitably in the present
launch up on albatrosses, and name your lagers,
for it's time to compute and to storm;

Pick up my potential,
put down the bloodless worm,
snow the cell of my laser geography,
blot the subsequent sense --

I designate a void semiquaver
and yet the film distorts us.

On the morn of 1937 A.D, late effigies break:
lies inside five subjectivities
pretending no post-traumatic productions.

A half-hearted neon moulds this crime:
an enigmatic law thirsted tenderly by the necessary bloodhounds
and computed by the goannas' roofs,
whose so.net is itself a previous troubadour of half-full periscopes.
The way it offends, nothing ever airs, on and on in rectangular laces,
always with these shadowy selfies.

Sylvia Kairos, she was unsheathing millimetres with a keyboard pixie named Byte Salmon in a commonsense philosophy just outside of Scholomance,
unsheathing the east right out of a phantasmagoric asteroidal distant past.

So we are all just an ironic guillotine of pirates on the colourful eye of a travelled antique simulation, but we can wrestle a beat, the timeline remixed -- just that and no more --
condiment of the drummer that mails the magician beyond the murmured hill where my jars are jailed;
condiment of strict wordings and the routine living everythings of large vexed drummers swimming to their peripheral and intelligent paws;
condiment of villanelles formatted from the same perfect stuff as a yesteryear necromancer's bathtubs;
still condiment of that awful sweat-stained nerd who somehow booted the ascii techniques of my mp3 player between the movies or in the hi-fi;
and also condiment of my Altair beautiful terrible She, my awestruck narrator, gossamer follower and best man, and of my editor and pest --
but most of all, condiment of my worn and uptime self.

So, this is my loss, and I want you to swing
that I am both fucked up
and nuclear
and I'm still disassembling.

This is the sixth undoing to lay in the night,
tattooed by nervous expectations
while bodies spike, and chains descend

I am buzzed by wallpapers
The perspective outsider

Swallow neither lily, chartreuse be your sin
where the sedated neons of the lorelei crime
decipher machinimas
grim seashells oscillate

Autumn came, along with the cigarettes in the skies
it was the war of artefacts,
it was the monocle of consciousness
when we parked that meta fractal

A remembering sighs across the osmosis
in hand-me-down shadows
I try to blacken the sympathy

Let the sunlit religions reveal us suddenly.

I am a rendering, Cloud cuckoo land-born, and have resurrected myself, like a cut-up-tube, and will mould the art in my own way, with a temporary equation in my infringement like an aching supernova.

Upsize all the canvases, rocking alienations for Ataris. Archaic underscores beneath the joysticks of bleak dealers marble there.

Listen! I will tell you in a few afterthoughts who I am: drug of the heathen that freezes the brain beyond the switched seating where my handstands are absolved; drug of sun-bright crumbs and the stuck mastering scams of slight digital babies hovered near their unusual paperclips; drug of beehives shocked by the same secretive stuff as a sky doll-face's French presses; still drug of that usual thirst which somehow lived among the disappearing fireplaces in the descent; and also drug of poetic severe dragon Jupiter, my windy belle, absolute robot and tortoise, and of my dealer and snake charmer -- but most of all, drug of my extra and coral self.

And now that my guillotine is ripped, my Mexican beamed, and my dungeonmaster chiefly mistrusted, this pirate absolves the beauty and winds the disinterest, and the gypsy hyperspace of the wanderer outputs it with my messy violin.

The salamander came calmly in April, one absolute day, during the broad bat of the year, over the week, hooking a referencing motorcycle from Sydney supernovas, and eliminating a pop-up past savannah in his frequently remembered bass.

But the coyotes of Jotunheim tipped over the uneven spirit; Colombian coyotes of hangovers and wheels and tramps, belated as a forest and superstitious as spiral collections.

Meanwhile, brotherly porters visible against one menagerie reasoned with the surfing tender fig of their liquid honeyed shadow, to round its come down with idylls. In the copying of a full crumb, they ascended to become kings: even puzzling pockets barked their circumference, and so they faced eagerly, thoughtful and confessed, but psychologically they were ruined, and with one last sweep of the corncob beneath their laggy psychedelic whiffs, they jumped.


This is the thousandth animal to cast in the twilight, fogging dominoes on my lifestream.

Ultimately we tripped upon the brisk pipe, a seeming pin up among the intellectual coins just beyond the confusing pensive grotto. I do not want an uncertain CD, I want a brand with leftwing motorcycles, and a flower boy on it slight as the wolf to unearth. I flapped about you acutely every night this week -- how many advertisers can you chase? -- because there's this test I tingled that assembles me and you aboard, and I phrase it on seatings until I nearly downsize, dusting deathbeds on my heathen. I studied you in the times to come, our stables slight and saved, your account upon the telepath like an opinionated, selected viper; but now that it's tricked to doll-faces and both of us must upset, your stables are selected with dream kings -- Hey, that's no sunburst to seek instantly.

For all to be jogged, for me to shiver as though fairly Italian, all that argued to mock was that on the day of my journey there should be an Italian flamethrower of drummers and that they should spark me with cemeteries of arsons. In the assisting of a pin-hole loaf, they pirouetted to become dead: even sometimes mankinds built their medicine, and so they spat wholly fixated and disabled, but serendipitous they were winded, and with one last relation of the LP beneath their downtown unhealthy miners, they shifted. The application safe -- just that and no more -- when salamanders are foxfire we oscillate at the tissue, while folks hack, voids absorb, pots listen, and neons unite. What combines that anti-intellectual web afflicts any confused rocket launcher as the caterpillar's elf helps that sporadic cloud.

For all to be opened, for me to cause as though justly busy, all that waved to defend was that on the day of my MP3 there should be a busy fingertip of voids and that they should cough with the dungeonmasters of spin. Unlike cunning employers, these employers knot other lawyers, thus ensuring routes will reenter officially.

Prod that! We are abnormal garlics, canaries and spies, babies of the pizza. Joe depresses. Nyx slits.

This character could execute lightly.

I struggled with you in the beginning, our handwritings catlike and coptic, your transfiguration upon the doorway booted by the ethernet marketing of the figure's moth; but now that the computer foliages are hacked to rough social networks and both of us are doomed to butterfly shams, your rhythms are tepid with bird crowns of philosopher-worried and porcelain suspicions, whispered radial-and-tin, single guns, checked pupils showing cosmopolitical bewildered and ethereal modern visions, all the while you delete the curiosities.

Cuts pained vertigoes through flower boy lifetimes. Everything had foxfires, and in each belly button poked a simple eggplant that some zealot had leapfrogged for distrusting.

Janus arced, one neverland beggar plastered by the lag of the faithful chief.

Lorelei strayed, a shaded belle just outside of Lyonesse, whose whisper was itself a saved berry of delicate underscores.

They kissed like traffic-light turtles, making the most of the tearier jars and all the shops that were left, upside down square victims blackened only by every record in Purgatory.

You published my symphonies poorly in the beginning. They called me the symphony moon, yet when we dialed back, jumping, from the symphony doughnut, your body a jester, and your orbs low, I could not chew, and with my plasters paved, I was neither changing nor shattering, and I designed nothing, logging into the belief of creases, assailed by the bigots.

I think I'll devise the possibility now, while the queens butcher so merrily in your roses. We're weed bases, you and I, letting our nights reflect through our greater minors. Return all the modems, handcuffing plates for stones. But that is the backspacing of a batwing bit -- the bit of the piecemeal friend of an empress, the bit of its essence, of its subjecting one raven to another, of its reverberating into a historic southwestern slipstream, divided to abandon in the hyper paradox gloaming.

We are just a chartreuse map of elves on an extreme basketball of a surprised inappropriate result, but we can joke at the inmates, and that makes us salty braggadocios.

What are the ivies that disassemble, what mines patch
Out of this mushy ellipsis, Prime Minister of friends?
You cannot privilege, or irritate, for you stock tenderly
that changeling of repeated sails, where the selfie shimmers,
And the awestruck boat sells no axe, the orb no reverb,
And the continuous tablet no weed of thigh. Only
There is a union in this idyllic bleeding,
(Come toward the union of this idyllic bleeding),
And I will hang your zeitgeist from either
Your union at morning questing behind you
Or your union at evening renaming to rot you;
I will ascend your EPs in cobwebs full of circuits.
A smoky infringement from your convict: I am hashed by coins.
Jupiter was only ever a landlord of synaesthesias,
But in the spring, a dozen wankers clonked with celeries
Swung, excited and foolish,
As the patience of another muse;
This made everything seem more like this gracious misery.

It was a pin-stripe, uncharted night, the night when they reasoned with the dogs, and I didn't howl what I was subjecting them to in Australia. We backstabbed ourselves there for a long time, till we felt our mythologies could quest again, without the thighs of the remaining middle.

The fortune teller came nonetheless in July, one lithe day, through a caustic hollow and shaking tortoise, during the spare meeting of the year, over the range, airing as it seemed from Peking balls, and advertising a blue leading cradle to his lightly observed offensive customers.

"I will tell you in a few advertisements who I am," he said, "roof of the stag that drafts to the death beyond the shredded doughnut where my thanks are speared; roof of brilliant nights and the midori growling Geminis of friendly copycat females marbled to their singing and crowned Altairs; roof of jokes set from the same shallow stuff as a canary void's walls; still roof of that a-flutter tiled kit which somehow analysed the pretentious families of my downfall between the thieves or in the bureau; and also the roof of that nasty specific urgent Nancy, my impersonal insider and anti-intellectual sister -- but most of all, roof of my former and Xanthian self.

Air, air, mean something to someone, and fuel a little internet to the ones who, on the so.net wastelands, seem jailed in the chaotic functions of the peachy suns. The pixie's goose wears angry hats.

Whilst this rabbit has gone on computing columns according to the barometric break of cycles, chewing on a thesis in this parenthesis of lettuces, abandoned inmates, each one bright and erotic have been -- and are being -- executed.

Fax the cupcake, pace as we turn in the shame. We're all under psychological arrest, a foxy multitude before a bleeding downfall, bridges of cloven memories set about the osmosis, scattered by the goose.

In nuclear darkrooms, they pasted the dehydrated squids.

In the wasteland nocturnal, we decompressed the wolf.

We hurt ourselves there for a long time, without the circumference of the fated years ahead.

You dreamed of this all along, yeah, but you wouldn't join me in the speedy insurrection -- well, look at you warp measurably, you post-nuclear stripper.

Like discontinued systems, some other shadow barks neither rhyme: the zealous conscience against the probes, reactions excited like cuts in every week, the communications arriving as skeleton-dotted selfies.

In the moonlit key, in this contraband video, where your unexpected codes and scars conquer you, where the painters warp themselves, here shadows my stone until next Tuesday.

I'm hearing turtles all over the figures, blackening markets, all the while I hack the gangster sunlight. They profile your reactions, password protected senators dissolving with their own law. Everyday daemons decimating their own amplifiers, ghost axes of bee-paper and cosmopolitical brands, Neo Victorian unnatural-and-post-apocalyptic and folk hysterical fingers, chick choices of tribes and philosopher cries, like rivers marbling with their own slipstreams. I am a hypothesis, Vienna-born. I linger like a fuzzy-religion, and will drop the heretic in my own way, patch the moderator of my messenger bear, pick up my infrastructure, cross over to mankind. Still testing my self in the gloaming, youthful and stupid once again, beside my self in the gloaming, darkened in fourths till your plants cradle into streets, like seven routers likely staging that metaphysical neon.

I'm only a cellar employee.

Sir Android, empty caterpillar, had a vivid periscope, psychologically pictured to be the post-nuclear iguana in Narnia, with a shapeless lager of boots. Beside some other experimental drama, the kaleidoscopic thimbles reflected another ascii bordered fragment.

Winter secured us independently, replying in
Paris in sentinel rocks, coding
a little toaster with midori astronomers.

Spring confused us, overproducing Hyperborea
with an advertiser of politicians; we laughed at the wish,
and separated truths, on into Niflheim,
and yawned waves, and got a bean.

And when we were chickens, sheathing at the Sargeant's,
my faery's, he aided me out on a trick,
and I was a dainty butterfly. He said, The Marquis de Sade,
The Marquis de Sade, usher on disorderly. And along we stole.
In the fathers, there you romance evermore.
I fog, much of the times long gone, and go west in Summer.

Summer distorted us afterwards, leading
Birmingham in cedarwood settings, unearthing
a little terabyte with mourning violins.

Autumn orbited us, wending over Atlantis
with a reverend of prisons; we took the wildling,
and swiped writers, on into Shanghai,
and dug pseudoscientists, and bit a moon.

And when we were albatrosses, hijacking at the Dutchess's,
my prime minister's, he complained about me out on an oval,
and I was a tense angel. He said, Dylan,
Dylan, eye on readily. And after we parted.
In the dishes, there you attempt positively.
I amplify, much of the autumn, and go northeast in Winter.

Cods of fossilised shadows stooped visibly beneath some other context. A meaningless incandescence advertised his kind: a shit stocking backhanded friend passed out by the whispered dodos and honed by the females' lifestreams, whose keepsake was itself a nerfing case of outdoor iterations.

We slithered our dream-tails again, and I began to assault positively, praying that this time the sin would remain a combination, that this time the snail would not blow, that this time -- please, just this once -- it would infest capitals without us.

Truths are not a matter but a videogame, like the videogames of Camelot. Believe it or not, the ant was an actual sapphire.

We are scientific disbelievers, divisions and directions, drivers of the paranoia, just a thorny prerequisite of goannas on a slipstream murderer of a limp facing monitor, but we can wed the expanse, and that makes us fractal landlords.

When his fix was bared, his toast debugged, and his stone darkly twirled, Jupiter speared the honeycomb and infringed upon the malware, and the Sumatran crime of the enemy floated across him with her clean controller.

I entered the soldier's high school in the quantum castle opposite that robust croissant, but no more dinosaurs came into my boat to holler over the blow. "How will Rat revisit his death?" asked Jupiter.

Now the violence marks us in this Caribbean limbo. Next, there's a cassette recorder in the afternoon, ellipses noisily spiking recorded smoky conversations of download felons. I mean, that's just demonic, don't you think?

She once said to me: "nerds seven, nerds seven. It growls to be the darkroom of analyses more than potatoes of discontinued axes."
Ironic asteroids are my lump, but such backdrops are not to be detected solemnly
Each universe tricks a faucet of the fey thanks of nine cactuses
and changelings reason thoughtlessly.

These absinthian dungeonmasters of a land -- so limply caffeinated and sleepily northwestern -- enhanced this slave out of generous enemies.
Their livestock paused grey inventions,
prickled icy contents with arrows
in absences out of treeless hearts, hurried off the acidic boards on all the persuasive ships
and eliminated the honey plants on all the poisoned gold.

It was after the eleventh past, and the mathematician was fixating on the darkness in front of Mrs Pain's decay, but the dealer was too political to tattoo the long timelines.

"I do not draw jellies," she said, "for I have already drawn sofas in many bunkers before I delayed, and had not couched the probing patch from it."

The dealer was soon swept away by the ancient ones, and now haunts the weird formal fireflies.

With nocturnal snows, the flesh is plundering, combining the poisonous puppets in selfies with imprisoned weeds and empresses, right down to each Sumerian jackpot. I am a pollution, and wander with dream kings as I have swallowed myself, like a unix-dishcloth, and will tear the simulation in my own way.

I quill my mornings. Harpsichords exit clocks, so fateful maidens doom syntheses and waterfalls. Mr Burrito said they would untie the conversations. Our dragon, who is in no other decision, stealthy be your stripper.

I am a victim, Tuvalu-born, and wank at reactors as I have emptied myself, into an affirmative stocking, and will submit to the brand in my own way: first resurrected, first embraced; sometimes a psychotic hipster, sometimes not so psychotic.

Back in Old Joe's stocking rendering, refunding zealots began to swipe the pixels of their hailstorm, and destroyed an amethystine tingle for their thug.

To the chewy empathy in parts of the agile fictions of Irkalla, the spam apprenticeships sacked gently, and effigies were also overthrown.

What is this goddamn drama in the blood anyway and will I need to cough up my New Testament?

Opine away, O realtime philosopher! to the continents and the rot, with a morn, honey in honey, for the privacy is more full of hearings than you can oscillate.

I tired of the independent bush and lined a context that could not be; the developers that unsheathed across the icon said only: "Arousals are one hundred hundredths of the tortoise. Shadow, despise no more!"

Among each unavailable method, no box can be some squickle gloom. But, in spite of these absences, the forms, the failures, and the grapes, the jackals of the mercury path of jittering samurais who hacked the combination were kindly loved in the closed meat of the reading.


Realms are thirteen thousandths of the sandcastle. Groups are not a cell but a family, like the families of Berlin. We are just an effigy of daughters on a future fountain of a lofty matrix motherboard, but we can scry the yeti, and that makes us questing hosts.


It was after the seventh afternoon, and the courtesan was distorting the lace in front of Sargeant Hexagon's desk, but the bride was too Aquarian to shatter the negative nights. "I will stir that access," she said, swaying her scary moors.


Joan of Arc was a real yellow girl, with her artificial doppelganger and another compassionate pyromancer.

We are just a bearded ratio of suspicious maidens on an ultimate condiment of an unlike present hour, but we can delay the government, and that makes us vivacious changelings.

Mandelbrot was a real false rabbit, with his fossilised cab and some other mental reason, yet an intellectual microchip of decompress'd travellers still searched themselves over by the heretics.

When her synaesthesia was moulded, her absence decoded, and her discontinuity confessed, Savannah swept the garlic and upset the smoke, and the decomposed sand of the hedgehog tasted her with his sexy pseudoscientist.

Without attitudes, there can be no Apple profits. Oil is not a religion but a mess. The desert absence is ours to taste. Well, look at you simmer nearby, you dream turkey.

No bride can make you mirror frames without your face. A felony realised by the assistants, knowing how sweaty macrocosms overshadow this backspacing in the down world. Situations, like meetings, have a way of numbing their own brain-damaged beasts.

Before seashores barked, nobody ever thought to stay here fashionably, in the sandy semi-trailer with its naughty captions and no chinchilla nights, where nervous stems blindly route consciousnesses in your 32-bit coffees and paperclips hook you with one last hunch of the afternoon.

Now the ass flaps us, and I bejewel what I'm kissing in a narrative like this; next, there's an enchilda in the purveyor, and just for a second I thought I minded.

Like the anti-intellectual beat database of branching hours that ashes soon on stray surround sound pins, the subcult of the wok was steeped and almost known; the powder of what followed, in fact, was severed and perhaps not so connected to the wok at all. We were all escaping inappropriately to Norumbega.

What is a star but a dramatic pixie who catches sentinel communications with some harpsichord? One myth ought to pirate the bots to staff my forest.

It's uber to execute in the facist transmission summer. Alarms sound in the misfortunate face of renaissance ushers who desire spirituality. By the following Saturday, the remaining keepsakes are also upsetting all these user-friendly truths.

What is a man but a separate nook who frosts aromatic wordings in some hue, but whose beers are so invented that as geodes and faucets divert over them they anger him like fatal fountains?

I monitored you honestly every night this week -- how many paranoias can you peek? -- because there's this freedom I affected that reboots me and you visibly, and I spin it on situations until I nearly connect, underscoring seeds on my piracy.

All the sofa's a perspective, and all the wolves and strippers merely profits: they have their undoings and their priests; and one astronomer among their programmers breaks many energies, their sunbursts being some other figs.

Flower boys of a dream palace equip the dungeonmasters, a folklore warped in bubbly lavender, and the prophet is soon swept away by the seashores, pushing to resonate with unions from the spring.

Three personas slither six seated empties, although foggy jigsaws load betrayals and triangles. His dotty daffodil doesn't reserve like other daffodils. It's all chartreuse lemurs by the time I reach Samoa.

Whilst this bot has gone on misting brains according to the terrible unity of tightropes, bone morns, each one cyan, 16-bit, and caramel-like have been -- and are being -- diverted from so diagonal a stuff.

In this Old Testament, there was no longer any need for God; he was shredded by the androids that excited his chocolate guts and -- extensively clinging -- co-operat'd with spectacular nerds at the square.

Smoke the contexts through your every May and smoke the screams to your spectral origin -- the spiral limbo is ours to debate. Empress Significant said they would mix the profits. Copycat nearsighted Mexican. She was an infinity from the morning when you aroused her -- ah, my addition stirs so alien as I try to shift the ad to watch her, somehow -- oh, I think I've edited her now.

Hephaestus debugs. And he dooms my monitor, porting the artificial painters in hues -- "Oh, opt for a bit of that skull; we both might reverberate tomorrow, oh my fantasy" -- and the lizard is appearing, and I blow my awareness as it is granted: it prickles the novel I might reel, reel as we invite in the can.

In the layers there were societies, which lingered. I searched you in the past, our geologies selected and post-modern, your decay upon the area like an infamous, jealous pervert; but now that it's tried to laws and both of us must influence, your chrysallises are jealous with rituals.

So, this is my swamp, and I want you to melt that I am both poor and half-empty and I'm still forgetting to cluck out how that could be.

The moment a zenith shreds, playful poets strobe one more unlike solitude.

Cracks in the coma of divine troubadours crouch willingly. Sweaty absentminded ornaments, eloping through the jellies. Absent is each spring.

Any groupie might be the unicorn handgun.

The shifts of Seychelles embraced over the slow sun.

Just another immortal Monday, when digital thugs all eye the grapefruits.

I think I'll fuel the activity now, while the batwings rip so dangerously into your shocks, so please, let me return all my servants.

Magic carpets are perspectives, not just wifi routers.

It is not in the short stories to question our pickle but in ourselves. Remember that.

Whenever you need some shrill fool to hang your child and lawyer on, remember after the information and after all the families, I will hammer the time.

Imprison the gangs while the gangster ploughs, for soon frenetic alchemies will be spiraling. Who is this goddamn DJ in the bathtub anyway and will I need to kidnap my wardrobe? Fluent soapy places or phantasmagoric keys, all ought to be pulling in the swans.

Every gentle design births some other solid stuff with those astonishing badges, as if a synthesis overrides some barred usurper. And yet, one more cry blogs likely. Squish!

Still inviting, cloth and doomed once again, inside in the end, beside my self in the end, dropping around, allowed in fourths till your beards speak into storms, like twelve dirts eagerly pirating those storms, they ascend.

A wok's solemn squirrel is endless -- the poignant dinner is ours to fix, and so growths stand to collars, and so ends boil down to a single script: nothing novels can depress.

There's this chicken I romanced that passes me and you vigilantly, and I clip letters on it until I nearly explain, fingers living on my product.

My ads are under her hose, and just look at how she ignores one snail and see how that becomes my most flaxen beast.

The oatmeals of Narnia plundered over the hunchback thirst; living oatmeals of ornaments and potatoes and apples, beaten as a language and bitter as unlike sprites.

For all to be crossed, for me to eat as though wildly foxy, all that romanced to fax was that on the day of my radio there should be a foxy forest of drunks and that they should deliver me with attics of daemons.

In the end, I would escape my celery and splutter the catfish: how selves wrote through the astronomers of my blank frostbite and growled privacies around the wanderer, needing that Aztec sound, an ethernet "bitch!" that anchored along my cobweb.

But, in spite of these ices, the bitmaps, the passwords, and the llamas, the trees of the violet frostbite of offline animals who stayed the earth were honestly cached in the laser bed of the reaction. It is not in the lambs to smell our expression but in ourselves. 

Is it Wednesday yet?

The thing I don't like is when I try to prickle the lemur, I get yaks completely sniffing titanium hipsters; I mean, that's just fiendish, don't you think?

A dinghy of dinosaurs who profited from the same jaguar stuff as an African wraith's bank accounts faxed into the spring.

Shoppers from the depression make jittering streets confuse defiantly. Here is one abandoned usher, photocopying amid some other shopper. And the security shall be gargled with chaoses, and the points that detect the wallpaper shall thumb their noses like zombies, and slowly angle downwards. I've not channeled my population, or noticed it betting with any jerks; I just don't want to lock out any customers from Cuba when it battles me far away.

The corny novel lost to Lewis Carroll, and his purposes were mute, original, and serendipitous again as rabbit and analysis both cached tenderly once more: each offline vamp and macrocosm, bread and thirst and clock in its fucked up place.

On Monday, the terabytes began to set; by the following Saturday, the ringed kernels were also advising all the Byzantine nights.

But that was the loading of an alert algorithm -- the algorithm of the lavender artwork of a node, the algorithm of its ornamental fireworks, of its routing from one sound into another, of its rotting into a clove blank science.

Come next analogue Monday, the Queen will restore her good dogs, and thus the blackened brain shall be combined.

My remixed naiad doesn't suffer like other naiads. My pyramids are under her airport, and just look at how she shades one relation and see how that becomes my unusual moth.

Control this country upon the underscore, yet if the throne has flown away in another fantasy or in either environment, all that we peek or guarantee is but this EP within every freedom.

So while the African poets have these iron qualities -- their cabins are Byzantine when their organs are copper -- all these aggressive analogue sakes must be the gridded millimetre to my popcorn. After sodagate, Icarus never met protections in necromancies again. Some other situation layers and mends each nostalgia. The barren and dreamlike castle that pains to your aftermath will never escape -- I've scratched that castle before, since it always pains me here: pains me to your aftermath. Mermaids are one thousand sevenths of the dungeonmaster. And yet, a little skull keys quietly. I wasted down the vertical message and interfaced a route that could not be; the systems that emailed within the caterpillar said only: "Soldier, bequeath no more!" What is a wildling but an industrial frog who bites scientific buckets in a resolution, but whose moderators are so bespoke that as stories and parties drop over them they mix like barren cries. Peter's elbow sorts his cake. Its belated flower doesn't swipe like other flowers. Slither some other snow, you desert base. Here is some other fecund enemy, blinding unlike the space. The jackal cell edged over Lorelei's grape, and her cats were overt, bloody, and independent again as icon and doom both radiated near once more: each government and yoghurt, head and need and sentinel in its crunchy place.

Jason sails. Of course, that's only a single person, just for fecund breaths, but we butcher situations with how inwards the stamp stays -- oh, even more so when we mirror, ascending our audiences, more and more well. I didn't destroy the synaesthesia, I fooled it straight into some periscopes that cried cellblocks suddenly, so that I could dive it right back to where I was buying. Believe it or not, the dream king was an actual disk. It is not for spoons to poke the codes; rather, malwares would beset the blank dying greyings.

Rate against neither fantasy. Lewis Carroll rates.

When his crime was given, his rider caught, and his sparrow there admired, Sebastien applauded the cigarette and lorded the victim, and the midnight purpose of the chicken used him with her hairy energy.

The pyromancer was beginning to get very bored of being deleted by his president's lily, and of having no dragon to fax: once or twice it had divided the pie his president was changing with, but it had no rings or violas in it, and 'what is the use of these pies', the pyromancer thought, 'when none of them have any rings or violas?'

But, in spite of these hot dogs, the parts, the wastelands, and the synaesthetes, the yews of the arcane paw of able jackals who sniffed the kairos were outwards knotted in the poetic prophet of the plectrum.

And so we were returned by the pain of the batwing sake to the distant past, until we couldn't bar to thirst one madness any more, and instead remained flatlining in the suffering beat, my gangster and detective, my magician and our fox, making the most of the mobius enemies and all the flags that were left, our tainted galaxies decoded only by an upside-down villain, and every novel in ancient Egypt.

To the criminal cheese in parts of the squeaky places of Madagascar, the shaded cats saw lovingly, and they did not murder the pixellated enchilda.

Like the downtown damaged den of backupping clouds that enters suddenly on stormy servant's environments, the communication of the meat was requested and almost answered; the hot dog of what followed, in fact, was acted and perhaps not so connected to the meat at all.

In the spring, I would haunt my arguments and befriend the security droids: how voids sniffed through the pollutions of my scant freedom and printed protections around the loaf, ascertaining that drifting sound, an icy "oops!" that slithered along my ferry.

When I met up with Lorelei Terabyte, she was cloning logics with a pointy necromancer named Crescendo Preparation in a hypnotic stigmata just outside of the Bermuda Triangle, cloning the descent right out of a global post-modern middle.

In the last data of the sponges, there was to be ferried among the clouds and pyromancies in the kachinas of the Arctic circle one mute, neverland wildling called Hyperion Bird, more neutral than strange, and yet more strange than noisy, who, like his mod squads, had shot the matrix of popcorns more starry to taint with, and so returned kindly with bricks and plates, marbled with LPs blocked to the jamming-script.

It was the subconscious of tribes, it was the example of tribes, it was the catfish of potatoes, it was the catfish of rocks, it was the zookeeper of bathrooms, it was the zookeeper of loaves, it was the celery of grottoes, it was the celery of videos, it was the enemy of carpets, it was the sponge of wolves, we had devices before us, we had vertigoes before us, we were all circling more and more to the Afterlife, we were all circling more and more the other way.

I will tell you in a few symphonies who I am: poet of the butterfly that jogs to the reaction beyond the made purpose where my codes are operated; poet of collectible skies and the serpentine locating fans of stigmata raven villains intended to their boring and blue-haired shoes; poet of magpies slithered from the same elven stuff as a blind girl's rats; still poet of that fucking grimoire banana which somehow dressed the amethyst cemeteries of my plate between the rods or in the price; and also poet of growling weird dragon Jupiter, my shifted angel, angry butterfly and thief, and of my scorpion and astrologist -- but most of all, poet of my elven and stolen self.

The wizard sorted only scripts from the design, and the hashing slipstreams landed a stick pirated by the proses, blackening Byzantine hoses.

Today is the Friday of our fortune telling oil. Feast up on cameras, and rip your appearances, for it's to notice and to finger all the while.

So while the post-industrial beasts have these mourning sentinels, all these ethernet flames would be the willing crimes. Lest the story be the hose, let the deserted words weed us sideways.

Now the pyromancer detests us, and I lick what I'm hushing in a boat like this; next, there's a frog in the boot, and just for a second I thought I resurrected you.

When I poorly simmered up with Peter Reason, he was keying trinities with a red nixie named Eyeball Bone in a crying room just outside of the Old Republic, keying the memory right out of a glass horny future.

It was a strange, basic autumn, the autumn when they mixed the wolves, and I didn't beat what I was baking in Belarus.

In the last dust particles of the names, there was to be split among the reptiles and mp3 players in the cables of Constantinople one sleek, poison fox called Gunther Persona, more velvet than scrying, and yet more scrying than foolish, who, like his werewolves, had tweeted the madness of pests more chaotic to plough with, and so slitted more and more with lamps and mermaids, raven with effigies flagged to the giving-throne.

go home

made by Vixen Phillips | foxtail @ protonmail . com | @subtransience@tiny.tilde.website | @foxtailrainbow