Artwork courtesy Texas Fontanella and John M. Bennet
Thurston Demands Moore
We must destroy the record companies; cake them and cream their box elder horns with flailing strumpets of pancake and waffle house menu-wrap plastic; mandrill-fuck their moons like tranquil toothed Hamptons in mucous—their un moveably zonked stilt-stadium festival of dry gums where Topekanese mongrels, chicken and slurp to calibrated android metronome dumplings of ego ascendant desert Mandrax orbits.
We must harness the soup of the naked where mulligan sloths of transcranial oscillations spin a single flurtzing electron; isolate its rock of hair-dryer-helmet implacability in eyeball trinket rumblings of myriad bulls; its depth row hung drumlin stacked est and ostrich—pyroclastic protuberances hackneyed to goat-brow nubness.
We must labyrinth into full fronded rooms of silly people playing unfathomed enormities—strenuous shredglass, like Uri- Geller-spoons of bent instruments, grappling hooks esteemed into whale sputum eternities, vibrating like unctuals of Devonian string—this bone house of cartilaginous lungfish, whose lava-lamp and metal-machine swords emit Brancanian mosaics of dorsal colossi weeping feedback extremities through glottal zebras of prime alveolar geothermals.
We must infer winglets of elbow, birded and trussed in deep feathers of tent, where none had been apparent before; and do it in a solemn and jocular incontinence of blathering sound, the drunk-cufflinks and spun gruzzet reverse-polarities of tuna-directionals; de-Abu-Ghraibify radar trones and brultims of ovarianated mulch—gorx the plutonium factrix of flamboyantly fracked steam-injectors, the paleazo-arctrons of copper scarred tectonics…
Until the world looks red
with white power sneakers
on the beautiful beat of black feet.
Innumerable Stumble 