...That's Tuesday Practically Summarized

Light’s shine, now, inverting organs, cells unlive, slipped out with the brain soup, we’velostanotherone, and let the Cosmic Slop begin…

What reaches out from, redacted, rewrites the established mad dash continuity, fucked right up the absurd fluidity—I’d like to say current voltage, only amps that reach for ground for its rightful throne at the calamity. Ohmy… to see the consumption live, arousingly revolting? Shanty humming, ignoring the straitjacket of the sane, comes with a certain march. Left out here with a walking cane. Could see the train side from where I last parked on the wrong track—all these human confessions in the trees are lies. What’s confided to the jester ends up with maps to the Promiseland, guided by your personal deamon’s inner monologue. Shh,haveyouneverheardthem? Call it god, sure. NO! That secret Detective in the trees that punk king answers to. A new coup from your highness’ quarters? ‘Give in to the parley just to roast the lot of you on the record’ sort. Let the Cosmic Slop begin…

Bomb the bloody bridges, quit your laughing, those are a lot of stitches. That’s what I get for failing to flinch at giants’ mood switches. Hoethumbingwho? Looks at the common species, like you’ll only learn more by studying its feces. No one can see me. Cena, but wears heebie-jeebies like the skate rats that rolled through said aforementioned thesis. It's all Friday, Rebel to live—aretheseparentsfamiliartoyou? No filler, greeting killer. Measured sillier than the village idiot in a vacuum, the idiot that slept through the fifth of November, slept through the end of the—oh, never mind. Sultry eye to socialize the lizard brains running the stage, somehow, (oh, that one didn’t quite phrase…) Keep it down, creep. Music waterboarding for the next epiphany, dated, stamped, sealed from the essence of Beethoven. That creative rage, can’treadmusicforshit. GASP! Quick! Break in case of emergency approval. Destine bull shit, spoken for the one that inspires the need for hired asshole removal. Fucking finished your fancy crucible, see my manual was twenty-six-ish years in, thanksfortheheadsupbackthere. Almost missed it, ducking through that Clancy chapter. Live rounds, but you know, my bad for that. Still can't read all of it but, youknow, thanks. Wait, those are new sounds…Gross! Hive mind buzzing—keep catching their awful frequencies—'look at how it breathes? One last relived social scene, deemed worthy of a, what'sit, who gives a shit? Whatthehelldoesbalaclavacladdedmean? Shit, another one. Sorry! Left the scene, got ahead in a new one, going through one. Giving it a reread, "someone wasn’t so keen…" justtenminuteslateatthemosthistime. Deep breath...let the Cosmic Horror begin…

High value, slack-jawed, or forever the calm loon, slow walker that beats you to the moon and back, crash crater into the shattered dunes. Stories written of that universally redacted language aren’t forbidden for a reason. Bitter anguish if the answer were just…right there. Each opportunity hijacked by changes in these bipedal creatures’ growing emotional ranges. Practice for the noble sages… ‘thefuckisyourproblem,dude?’ Solver of an equation with the undisputedly most ‘Mathcaneatabagofdicks’ brain devise by mother nature’s ‘come on, lucky eleven’ dice throws. So, here ‘THIS’ is for YOU to analyze. Yes, the data is corrupted, use your, I don’t know, discernment or something. Getting tricky with this new language set, how’sitsound? Wolf Sleuth of the Ded Moone Sect, it’s called. A study in musty books to improve the vocab—lexicon of Death/Life questions. Deeper still. Regular light, finally, no sleeper cars to the peak to receive this transmission—shhh, something is coming in…

And that’s FIN.

These aliens won’t take me alive. Another hive mind, false sign, that’s it, the channels are all tapped. That’s everyone. Whoistheretotalk to—I… WAKE UP! Do you know where you are? Who’s the president? Did you see what tried to harvest your liver?!... let the Cosmic Slop begin…