Charles Darwin's Guide to Infatuation
February 01, 2004, 00:40

Yes! Back by insatiable public demand; 
It’s been BANNED BURIED and BOYCOTTED
Behold, true believers: The [Viennagram:]

[CONTROL:]
The re-animation process has been a lean and lathery one, oh my men of war and Vicodin venuses. 
It all started at the Tape Worm Farm, where my Arabic born illness was starting to bother all consumers. It was at the point in which my sinuses (why of course they’re hyper-realistic) began to hum with a militia drumroll; in and out, the old eroding vaccum number.
The hum began to shake the gluttons and sideshow attendees to their very double chins, stealing their wallets on the sidelines. 
Blonde Mars Moustache got up from the secret sidebar, passed the velvet ropes and asked for my license in the most provoking manner that even the new born babies couldn’t help to recoil through sheen coatings of birth mucus. 
It just so happened that the world renowned Wisdoms of Vienna; that had been thwarted by the likes of the brown ballot to dopple-pheramone harlots; were spinning like a druid top. 
Billy Guns finished in a last gulp of red herring eggs, rezipped his vapor lung designs (concealed within imitation leather change purse) and dialed the Portuguese Widowmaker via [TAPEWORM WIRE:]

[ENTER THE CATS FROM THE JAPANESE FLAG:]
and It’s lights out for the true believers, dare and do not for the dates of the oil sheiks herum have just begun.
The cats slurred their way through the human rapids, unphased by the idle vandettas of their fathers. The strobe of the lips lick were exhaust to the silver city grease fires.
It was wisdom they were after so their widowmaker could live forever. 

[CONTRIVE:]
The cats were beginning by tapping my temples with solar flares, taking tablespoons from the veins of Vienna and In burst the Karma Police. 
The Cats had no means of consolidating their black spoons for swoons with a headstone banquet, so they took off in the spy fringe ship across the malted cornfields, buried skin deep within bouquets of swollen soil. 
[BULLHORN:] The legs are crossing
KARMA: ‘What we need here is an anchor, a squire and a match for this turkish sin bath. it’s a deal electric eel.”
(call up)
!!! THIS JUST IN !!!
The Intimists and Rationalists have rewarded envy with a golden key.

My answer: “Less talk, why not?”

[CONTRACT:]
The Hi-Fi (blood) Internationale short circuits and I am sent back to January 0.
January 0 is a cold and startling date; like poison tipped acupuncture revenge for leap year burn victims. The black watch of Czech has it’s firm grip there; 
everyone: a shadow, sterile and removed. 
The colors run like pepper spray conductors; sapping down the air passages of the very silent assailants. 
I assumed the only way to fix the Hi-Fi major malfunction was to quench it’s foaming throat with sex paint from the riverbeds of the Serpentine Belt.
Roaring into a nearby bordello, I employ several harlots, dressed in cleavage crabclaws, to do what they do best inside the motors and rotors.
“Free? Like I’m Lincoln and the slaves?”
CLEAVAGE GLOVEBOX: “More and more, my impeccable darling ” 
On zero’s electric air, the atmosphere in a hot air balloon womb.
In zero’s fluorescent lips I envied the last Hiroshima breath.

[BILLBOARD:] SERPENTINE BELT: CAUTION: OPEN PITS

Along the way from Broadway to Bombay, I decided to stock up on essentials:
(ir)[RATIONS:]
-large portrait of Abraham Lincoln (czech)
-harlequin mask (blue) (czech)
-Iodine
-snake bite serum
-plastic nails for the queen leech
-old fashioned armband (czech)
When I returned the mars black sex paint lounge, the filth had broken into the Hi-Fi Internationale; replacing the moth infested copy of ‘ramones mania’ radio and installing an ultrasound monitor, royal sparks to get me back to the modern day and 
A fistful of stars in a coca cola IV.
And to sleep in tatoos and lightbulbs…

[CONSTRICT:]
The octobex and octovus were busy skinning all of us
To settle their old debts between the Eskimos and pence 
France was loving France and I was always I
The moon was purple hearts as the jet plane spoke the seams:

[Back on the seas of touch and motion]
I awoke in an obscure : my tubes and sheets were puckered like leeches
It seems the anne of the IV had taken me for more than my skin
Under the silver linings, the childhood sugar stockholders gave their blood to me
Invest in the veins of vienna.
Brandy Warhol’s psychic surgery was a success! 

[CZECH:]
“Wisdom teeth of the Chinese New Year” applauded the dopple gangs with seafood hunger lungs; their stealth was forfeit in the flypaper cement.
“Good riddance, sayonara” spat the slave ships orange rinds, 
if mint was mint to clover than the civil war was tied. 
Be still my little catalyst, your sins are far and few
gardens are just olives, pardons are just pleas
liberals are just radicals when your cutting arteries.

Yours, beating black paint, soft and lineless
Try the paris proper horsehair as you polish off your spectacles
Demographic skins for the softest vinyl ceiling.
Donna Dear, your shadow spores live on
In your distant daughters profiles
In the checkered loves in iodine…

{twilight}
after a fight with a mimic octopus, the saint and myself sailed the seas of open sores and octopus ink. Finally reaching our destination within the garden of forbidden olives where we drove the Hi-Fi (sinus) Internationale through waterfalls of hot wax and schools of various lungfish.
Mid-section Bonnie and chemical Clyde wet their lips in the fountain of youth under the spectacle of red carpet love shown in non-linear time. 


"see you in heaven if you make the list"
[END VIENNAGRAM:]