Manual Controller / Blog


if you, crusty as you are, were to put eight loafs of broad, mold and all on that man's face, I would blame you. for not being friends. for not asking me about my day— for smelling like a man.

you see, I have a heart made of tin foil. it needs a good bake from you—the man with the mustache. hygiene is a myth invented to separate those on this side of the river from killing those on the other side of the river.

you sent your 5 year old with a limp to ask me how I feel about the new cafe. I think it needs better bread, less hard, more judgmental oil in the hair of the pigs.

you see there's male anatomy that flows like a bridge on fire in July. I better not. And, in the center is this 5 year old monk who knows what you ate for breakfast, but irregardless (a lie!) you hate him for asking anyway.


the finical pinocle rushes at you like a tidal wave exiting a concert. this trench, the water rising, air gasps and rusty lungs will heal and that fly swatter in your hands, thought simply for squashing pests, becomes a knife to sever the fault line between your pushpin on a map and reality of your location.

life raft inflated, you ask co- floatees "am I crazy?" or "did you not too see a giant squid crush the larynx of the sky?"

there are no answers. there are no replies. your intestines spilt out and they're busy dining on the entrails of your (y)ears.


my soul's on a conveyer belt running the other way I'm going, it seems the man on the leashes glad to meet you. and the circles running... ...rather... dripping down your face have no place to go so they smile. my heart in the impound beat the snot out my nose so I'm all out of love- ly places to visit. it's upset when you leave but attacks when you're mad about the myriad ways to eat glass. you're probably alive and I'm probably a liar, but we both have a great taste in people. so, pick up that pan flash a glance at the mass and drive til' you're sick in the pants.


eye... wouldn't you're like to grip him's optic nerve m' rip snort -tort- shell-is from is cradle? use as chewing gum his perwhiffeal judgement and shove it up on threw his retna' hole? upon thus statement as such, his nerve bends - reaching backgammaround it settles on menonesuch. I, yes true, am subject now of nye-dust, spotlight scrutiny. has my bealeauged routine used me own constitution as target practice? these warbled methods shot paper holes through me cardboard heart? refract. I have 10 degrees, who land on black-or-white, intermittens; two degrees, which C naw pinwheels spinning me morals round. an alphabet of lairs spiderweb'd & cow shat stinkin' to nye-heaven like neon death. his, not stopped to look. a spare hand nah chooking his iris out. in e' land hopped up on corn nuts & peptobismal, me thinks I'm seeing clear.


lithographed by breed pudding, I see the future through sad cheekbones of my enemy.

the curves shake louder than earthquakes. but, what is a line? without egg soft twist entrails round the dreams of your throat?

entropy, apostography! snatches your breath, garlics its scourge and fogs off your allies, hoping, dreaming! it dies, not on shore, where lighthouses beam for refuge, the sea, where spoiled waves sing, but bottoms of oceans. 900 creatures (yet to be named) fight for the surface to be not shattered by light.

I sit up in bed. it squirms and writhes to be burned. A cauldron of fear, I may never get up and ask more questions. pay it's debt. I'd rather be smothered by pillows than tarred by its feathers. I'd rather be burnt then never taste fire. I'd rather be coma, than live like a sponge.


I'm in Mongolia and my feet are hot as warp flutter in the berry dip swamp butter. I focus sharp toad water on his sweaty throat heart bisk. It's a miss I miss mostly. the misty caved cold horror of his fang-toothed boiler-plate. The mouth he calls "Out-Washed" though we know it's not flesh sought, we know it ain't mountain-shot or valley-drought finger rot. It's a very flaxy shell game of scare-a-taddle investigate and I know WHY it's winning. It trails miners - 15, astronauts..................0. They beat em every time.


the madness has ceased. in its seat sit anxious paper donuts and whelk-ed-colored cat meat. you can eat the meat of course, but when the belly turns green you better run to the hills (now orange) and nab a pair of glasses. the view from here has smeared; those lines (remember their edge?) drift to dune perplex like your eye shattering through an ultra-violet spectrum. if you remember the colors you'll know gray is the brashest, and a pencil no longer cuts skin or bone or heals massive headaches only ink can calm. So I say, buy a brush and comb that red hair. The only people who care now are the ones who eat mirrors. Feed them.