SurgicalHumor

It's our turn it always has been. It's our turn a left or a right or a U; whatever, it doesn't matter. walking on the hot pavement, like fire is a necessity. (For you, too, so lower your nose.) I want to hold your hand, pinky swear, but that would be too expected. I'm cool. "What's wrong with these kids?" can refer to infants and the middle aged. Who's to blame? "It's that Betty Page! It's that Madonna! It's that Marie Curie! Radioactive whore!" Scapegoats for hypocrisy. They see us in their place. They've already seen themselves in ours. Flames are hot- ter from a third-party's perspective. Humanistic. It's je

We all do it in one way or another stare into the toilet water, watching slow swirls that, to us, look like whirlpools and whisper, ''I'm not skinny enough.'' But it is at this time that all ability to count becomes lost and the white porcelain cracks, burping green sludge that never quite reaches the ground We then say-- or for the passive, think-- ''This isn't what I wanted to happen.'' No, we want (lust, hunger, thirst) for it to spill onto the floor seep into our shoes We want to dip our hands in and scrawl simple arithmetic onto the walls (But that wouldn't be good enough)

Freedom is arms behind your cranium; kneeling to the ground eating dirt and licking boots with a smirk and a wink Keys and locks and antidepressants are just there for decoration     There are no bars to run a cup across     There are no cups There is no running However: There is a hole in the cell wall just big enough for your dick stuff it; drown yourself in gasoline and light yourself on fire-- you're a star! This is liberation! The unfurling of wings is accompanied by screaming fits and nausea (There is a bold line between this and mewling and puking) Nothing is more liberating than seizure We'll measure your