Sip fifths and skip forth
slipped discs in discourse

I missed this
by choice
A faulty foundation
shoddy construction from the
Onset to Tesno

A Balcony at an INdian WEdding
drops revelers
faster than
a fixer drops a twist
and it breaks faster than my lines
in a trailer

A Moment of bliss and a WElcome INterruption
gathering clots
like groupies seek
autographs

I'll sign my name and say
there is something left.

Promise me I will marry like metal fuses in an auto wreck; twisted and melded into an unknown form. Let me dance with a niece like a lime tangos with the effervescence of a fresh liter of tonic.

Abstain from capital punishment when Im convicted of forcing carnal knowledge upon May. Kneading my semi-flaccid member into her waning daylight and splaying a nut upon her multihued fresco, grant me a reprieve, because Junes post-coital nature lets me know its all a sham.

We can wander amicably into summer and treat happenstance like cohorts greet each other in postcards; short on words due to the lack of space, conveying our meaning in innuendo and wanting to fuck because of the postscript.

Treat my day to day like having to turn the stereo down on my favourite song. Add a u to words that can accommodate one to let people know you can b in the right if you really want to b.

With Julying to me as always, Ill try therapy, and waste my energy and credit on trying to paste it all back together. Her days and temper have been growing shorter for weeks now and my will to lie is surmounted by feigned indifference.

Cooked alive in that car wreck, grilled to the steering wheel because I was wearing a seatbelt on you insistence. I screamed for my mother while the steam from my last breaths fogged the spidered windshield.

Ill divorce August and cite irreconcilable differences. She can take half of my money, cause I aint got shit. Double my negatives, because I was this tense in the first place. Triple my bets that my rebound with September, ends in the grave that my car became.

Drinking in the guise of social grace, shaved pate prickly razor burned and heated. Slurred protracted diction exuding the talk sick demeanor of those angry for anger's sake.

The manager's wake, we walked. Toasting the memory, suckling the sheet music. Songs made sad fore in depressions stead we stalked with loose ties the tendons taut and sadness brewing inside like old coffee with newspaper filters. She invests money in good times like some do in NASDAQ. Some rafts. Float with a purpose while others glide on the surface with no direction other than an eventual destination. Commensurate prizes awarded for differing amounts of effort put forth. In fifths, with faux smiles that lacquer the depression with meager amounts of contentment. Republicans in this case can quaff liberally with the left. With no cessation in moderation, waiting. For coffins to be lowered, glowering yet galvanized by the notion that any one of us can be next. Weve all be caught necking with death and been lucky enough to escape with only a hickey. The sickle's love bites left in perpetuity in the form of a windshield spidered by a forehead. Forethought in third gear grabbing the guardrail and the only lesson we glean from the incident is the inference that getting bent is the only thing weve lived for.

Last thoughts are rarely ruminated upon. These could be mine. Yet her smile makes me hate the fact that I resist. Some spike a vane chord in those they dont know, while others are always approachable. Sonambulatory breast stroke through the deep end of discussion quipping all the while about those who dwell.

Being the broken blade of a busted screw that turns a ship twice as big as the infinity ones mind can fathom. Sinking deeper than three times the last sentences final word.

apostrophe

If I could screw you again
through my line breaks
I'd bend you over like a sapling
snapping
back angrily cause you're too young and green
for my hurricane
to bust
nuts again like seventeen in your garage
when post coital behavior was matching socks
without
eye contact you most mornings through a landline
in my mind
each throb dialing the rotary phone under my comforter
each tick back towards the Operator
The Pulse before my days of aTONE
meant I always leave you the romantic lead in
my brief morning reveries.

11/16/2006

I hope to generate body heat from typing cause it was always writing that kept me warm. Its tough, however, to write the way I want cause the site fucks with my line breaks like an undercover narc spying heads taking bumps off a urinal.

First person'sbeen scared of pronouns lately. He used to write that way when he did the inklinks, and its something that hes gotten away from. Mostly likely due to the fact that he doesnt want the monitor to be a mirror, he wont chance glimpsing his reflection.

Sometimes when pronoun doesn't look in the mirror for awhile pronoun forgets its a necessity, pronoun never knows when there is a poppy seed stuck right between the two front teeth or whether or not there is a bat in the cave holding on with taut talons to a nose hair. So catch pronouns reflection when pronoun can, let pronoun take a quick peek right now.

It seems as if I will never get this beast off the ground. The creative controllers of this site are dispersed across the country like victims of Katrina, and I am the only one as of now with regular input. I am going to find a way to put up more media, but the more time I have the less I do with it.

12/8/06

Gregarious Greg was hilarious when Harriet went on benders with Peg.

12/15/06

The ledgers of a lethargic lothario depict the denouement of a Don Juans decades of dastardly decadence. Steeped in steamy standards of strikingly stark stanzas, seemingly similar to the seminal works of several select scribes, our primped and premed protagonists prophecies promulgate a putrid prose to the hoi polloi whose present posture protracts the pestilence that was so profoundly profuse in the prior proceedings.

2/20/2007

I shower in the dark for two reasons. So I cant see myself naked and so I can piss without shame. When the lights come on and the mirror laughs the hinges off the medicine cabinet door, I hear the howls of derisive laugher echo off the tiles. Toilet water reverberates like an outtake from Jurassic Park.

Squeezing out the tears of its final spasm of belly laughter, our mirror (youre involved now) regales us with the facial fissures, most say features, of a quarter century of malfeasance. In the groping talons of my crows feet we find the duffel bags of ocular baggage; stuffed until the zipper burst like a three year old packing his trucks with his underwear for a three day trip. While the draw bridge of my nose lowers lines perpendicular to my pock marks, fresh scars intermingle with the old hat regulars and line up for their photo to be captured in perpetuity with each successive glance in that cunt of a reflective surface.

3/17/07

I made up the dates and wrote them all in the past few hours in my semen stained boxers whilst eating stale Wheat Thins. Never before have I licked the Proof of Purchase off of a Nabisco product,

Now, Stella Doro. Shes another box all 2 together.

www.kosmonauts.com www.textualinnuendo.com

I was joking by the way.

About the Wheat Thins.

Not the boxes. I mean the boxers.

Dave

Nowadays, there a very few things keeping me from being that guy that sits down drunk to talk to a dog in a hallway; and there are even fewer things keeping me from having a meaningful conversation.

Ruff?! Shit may be and when the arcs bend like that, until they bulge at the snapping point like a sapling in the wind. That is where we smack with the hatchet, hacking straight through the fibers.

Leaving the house with the dryer on, wondering when the Bounce sheet will burst into flames. Lint left more than the UK Subs when he ripped angrily through our speakers, I should say mine, unless you've been left Rancid like me.

Bark. Peeled backed like the foreskin of their souls and whilst Mycock Realty sells houses on my isthmus I must, be that one who admits. Towards my home I did matriculate.

I am an immigrant. I plopped my under-roos upon the land called CAPE- god at the age of six, I shit.

Green Pond, I left it.

Beg My Pardon.

Learning to write with a deadline I left with a red one.

LongLive the INKLINKs

Dave

In a state of repose and yet I reside in the bEAST HEARTfjord, she sleeps sullenly in the balmy blitz of the new years nascency. If Indian Summer squats his hind quarters on the month of October, the month of January is usually where he kicks the warm moist excrement.

Alas, it seems as if he is still shitting taking away my excuse to be miserable, making me merely the malcontent they knew I was in the beginning. Maybe my true colors will run in the wash, when the upcoming weeks dash a sprig of Winter with an open hand slap; upon my utterly supine subservient subsistence.

Every gig henceforth will pay me like a substitute, reaching strains. Teaching pains, taut muscles fail. As I am aft the leech sail, too far away to bail my pale in comparison is comprised of a smattering of Podunk epithets, divorced from their urbane uncles due to an irreconcilable difference in guttural utterance

Fuck this shit. Translation I am tired.

Put your own fingers on the bow to tie this one up.

Fuckin furious he was. Waiting. Fucking endless it seems making more than it was. Faking. For the life of me, he can't be serious. But she said that she was late, meaning of all things, that, because she was here. And there, we sat. A failed lesson in licking the mixing spoons when they were still attached it seems as if they had a future.

Fuckin glorious she was. Beaming. Fucking breathless she gleamed making less of a deal than she should. Waking. For the life we'll share, he'll be serious. And there, she thought, that was that. A completed lesson in miscommunication, she'll bare the thought of nixing the womb, when they laughed it seemed to bust the sutures.

With misconception breeding reticence like stagnant water breeds mosquitoes in an old tire, they did the same and made the noun the past tense verb.

He haggled, haggard and belabored over the description reading like stereo instructions; he fermented in a still of their own quandaries.

In the stead of a real relationship she took to quavering in questioning taking to term the proposed progeny of perhaps the biggest underachiever that was ever born. Alas, he had smile and wit about him. About her, a lass she had the movement kicking in her abdomen.

Next of kin eclipsing then the fixed in win. All she saw was the emotionally barren corrugated landscape of his soul, with moments of purported promise peeking. Out, he dipped like a waning gibbous in an extremely poor metaphor masking defeat in a disguise of self-deprecation we decried, "I was never one for family, I'd rather take two for the fun of making one."

Fuckin happy they are. Living. Fucking life it seems makes more of itself than one would expect. Aborting. The preconceived notions of conception, they glean from mistakes the graft that keeps on grieving.