look at those feetfeetfeet. his pheromones are musty and taste like yeast, but tonguing the superstructure as it enables or supports capitalism is heroic. is a man always a crime. yes it’s a crime. i grew into an advert. an adverb. an additive in an additive. but if garbage aesthetics is relevant it is in the atmospheric everyday norms, habits, beliefs and it contributes to a tornado haze as heavier emissions than the grey plumes cumming out of smokestacks, so we can dance in the piss rain, enjoying our mental fog unable to produce art let alone product let alone masses for art for products for masses, old music that’s in tune by way of talent, shitclouds growing on the horizon and i honk my horn get the fuck of the way, i make underwear pollutants, i inhale the smoke b/c the oxygen has treasonous aims. carbon is organic so what’s all the fuss about, we’re going to die in the garbage fucking and flailing so happy finally suffocated by the bags and bags and bags and bags someone’s cackling as the burial proceeds a sanctimonious cackle the cackle of art itself the garbage aesthetics that crushes us all down to particulate, says Actions: go. make more ugly shit. it’s unreasonable. Actions: go. make more ugly shit. it’s unreasonable.Actions: go. make more ugly shit. it’s unreasonable.Actions: go. make more ugly shit. it’s unreasonable. Actions: go. make more ugly shit. it’s unreasonable. I suffer from aesthetics
the more the appearances of things are snapped into place the right place a pleasant fit not simply a fit not only what it looks like but that it looks good good not sexual not sexually attractive not a sexual portrait not that various genitals pictographically rendered are not aesthetic but the aesthetic is seducing but not seducing into sex wherein sex is nerves nerve endings like tentacles the tips of tentacles instinctively trying to grab or touch the violent stimuli Speak for your self this garbage man is aesthetic and sexual! Look at HIM and fuck him until it’s not him anymore just the rag bone garbage the rough edges and hollow bones the things that got old but couldn’t be worshipped couldn’t be re-valued couldn’t be picked off couldn’t be re-lived couldn’t be ugly couldn’t be known because i could love technology forever the beauty it contrives more than haunts its presence is retroactive and it fucks me until it’s not me anymore just what’s perfect
