(Excerpt from Underscotch Zorg: A Posthuman Love Epic)
(Enter Somni Brisure, Zorg party candidate for rectal surveyor)
Vacate the mock splinter, the rumors of Somni. Brisure’s at the hair
salon with robotic hand. Data centralizers bite his piggety vote. Cock
the forvirtual hog. Ingest the feet pickled in pesticides. The last pocket
in the gypsum, repairs the red trouser zipper. Bimodal shots hit the porch
tenants. Intercourse the intersection crabs. Mutate crack carting hussies.
Roll up the push button smileys with their afterlife anthologies, comfort
toilet seats, matted foreskin trashola add-ons, plugged into neon sex toys.
Paste those rascal platitudes into their motives for metaphor. Recreation
flushes his next turd, his hairlip, his organum upbra overlets in alabaster
and proved spurs. He lies in the decay of blood, blood-marks, crowns
hacked and coveted, before the scouring fires of trial with pink scorp
and his stingray wrists. Beyond the fable, grand carotid arteries, for slit
latitude and crises portfolio, a self-fulfilling resistance derobs resurgent
licks of their stolen trauma, tempered in their modulation and balanced
impulse. Any resolve? Any feature for our regard? Who will keep purity
the stained archetype? Somni Brisure is heavenups with barbaric knots,
scrollwork to comb his hismatic hair. He knows it all: funnel back death,
mortal prose by deavatars, twenty degrees shy of a trojan horse virus. He
is spent in the ruck, to foretell, for godsakes, his witness breath on facial
attellations. To bulge through the cum catalog of stump is, after centuries
of granted pardons, a fealty of blue fortitude broken as named. Respublica
sticks in the rectum. His inbreaks recall their archaic laws of hymnody. He
sucks off fame for your vote, for your one true anus with its the lips which
spread it. As long as there are mouths to cusp the one true swollen member,
naming it does not matter. He is a seeker after fame and erections, after hot
vagine indistinguishable from each other and all counted as equal. Slit pottic
ruminations let rip the entrails. Passion has its origin in crowd manipulation.
(Somni Brisure promises a speculum for all delegates)
He will augment universal beast pelvic and train hyenas to clap on demand.
He will adumbrate zinc prussian blue from its source in red metamorphs.
He will meld normal hemispheric paracocks with their paravagine comates.
He will flatten tubular canisters to a attract and seduce the dial-a-god hose.
He will feed fractals to puritans with vertiginous addictions to pulpy starch.
He will hybridize detergent androids with their tongued butthole precogs.
He will write a thousand scatological tomes while crawling on burnt knees.
He will neuter mediocres to guarantee their genetic end in Underscotch Zorg.
He will steal, plagiarize and appropriate the literature of the western canon.
He will suckle the rapeseed oil of the resutured soldier’s detachable penis.
He will call victorious brillo pads a parody of reclusive declusions per ratio.
He will celebrate ladyboy recitals with chainsaws, ushering in the new epoch.
Daniel Y. Harris & Irene Koronas
Picture: Claire Palmer