I like to lay insanity on the eyes of chicks. It blows them apart like
balloons. It strips naked their trembling fragile vagile egos, and they
scream for the benthic depths. Their egos break like eggs and they edge
away from me like I got a contagious meme disease. Fuck the fucking
microminds, anyway, he said, mostly convincingly. Vince was mostly
convinced, it seemed, singly and in groups.

I like to scare away the frightenable with non sequiturs, see if they've
got the moxie and the flagella to maintain their equilibrium. Preferably
not with librium or lithium. I'm taking my medication — helium. It helps
keep me up, and my squeaky voice reminds me to not take life so
seriously. It is a game, after all, and we inhabit the pieces. So when I
call you a delicious piece, you'll understand what I mean.

Composing in the posting box. Not the usual way of things. Stepping out
of character to comment. Not the usual way of things. The not usual way
of things is the usual way of things. This guy who writes nonsense poetry
— all he ever does is write the same kind of nonsense. The guy is stuck.
He's a needle running the same old grooves. Soon enough you'll wear down
to the platen, and what's the point of platen? Doesn't he got a wolfen
soul? Is he too afraid to spawn more weirdness, to annex more unusual
creativities? Afraid of the nativities of the creativities?

I don't know. We all live in the candy annex. Sling the brix in the candy
annex. Anne X. slings a brick at my candy annex. Insanity for the
incendiary candy chicx —