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| ((THE STIMULUS WILL RISE AGAIN)) |
You are listening to the Wyrm.
Abandon all to the Wyrm.
Residents of the Calciflex Pontoon region were met with a horrifying bit of Reality CODA
when Diabetic Sun disrupted the value of its UV dispersing what would otherwise have been quaint tho eternal prolapse. Hail what furthers in pain, turn your eyes in Haloes of Mutant Copper. Hark the news team that delivers, that sends, that follows each trickling Source.
Round the bark, round the Fibrous Hanging Tree they shot.
Now desolate they wander. Watching the Night for its Salmon, pink Ascending up its River.
When in the Deeps beneath I gathered of this Hybrid Fruit,
A Hybrid Seed of Self and Slaughter, a Body like Hysteria, like Pink in Scales of Water.
This is the Wyrm.
PROTESTERS IN THE EAST DISTRICT OF THE CANTEL:2394,
AMBER RECKONING
One day they will question.
They will look at nutritional facts.
They will look at pillars of scab.
They will look at ph levels.
They will look at the clone.
They will look at my hands.
And they will know nothing still.
A nothing in today too, but open, free in some way our current scans,
our current scoops and reports on scene miss. Look again, look again,
I say but they will not find it out there: amid the stone of Terror.
What we shelter? What do we stand for here, where the news memorized is the news reborn?
A day to be alive, a day to Stand outside and listen still as Monitors harmonize the Fall.
Abandon all to the Wyrm.
Now to our celebrity correspondent in the sagging hatred of the scalped horizons, Judy Caesar.
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| Her methods may be peculiar, but Judy Caesar nuzzles a scoop from millennia abroad. |
Thank you, Gossamer Smith. Lots to follow in the celebrity spectrum, let me tell you.
Constant erosion and erection, sopping mess.
Just hope I can hold it altogether to the end of these Interview-scabies-Skittles!
Ann Remora-HU is a householding name, the faucets agree. She phlegms the wet-willy anon.
Everywhere following her. We see Ann took her hose and shoved it into her ear, "pump up the volume," she says to Walt. Patience like the surveillance dawn.
Walt has two hands on an Elaine, one inside and one underside her new belt of Blonde and Saccharine, like a silky miracle of Pulp, the primordial piano all syrup. Some haunt the teeth of Elaine, Invisiline but of Human Motion. Tesserect's the new Black, they in the LATTER DAY SHOW say.
"No Walt could compare", she, dearest Elaine, sighs to Camera D, "to the Walt in my Jelco-Jerrify: how Terrifying does your Morning Gurgle sound?"
Tyler Stasis_ta_Coulard has been coming and coming on Simon Djinnpinter for days, his face sands away at the eyes all blood, all being focused in the groin incandescent, pink tips, foamskin heaving barely cut, then sew dawn. Horizon vaccinated by this Color of his goose-silk sac, ahem, foie-gras the focus: ahem, but rarefied cutlet the Curve. Tyler Stasis_ta_Coulard! O, what won't he Do NOW??? Simon lapping up the reservoir faster faster faster like dog chasing some googly tail of marshmallowed muscle and sweat.
Dog in giggly cell. ALL SIP AT DOG IN HIS VOICE.
Fans lately have been flocking to the Britney halides, such that Ann has lost all sense of progress when faced with Asshollow Peers. Tracking shot: Ann at the cafe, ordering her noontide doses. Passing once-worn friends, glittery countertops, tables so like other tables. Ann with sun-burnt thoughts. Ann with freeze-dried flickerings.
Emotions from so far off. Close-up: Ann has violet eyes. Close up within a close-up: Ann violated in edges and lines. She bakes the fudge all the same, as US WEEKLY say. Many have found her face-down on the street, soul-spent from meticulous counting out of her 'four globes': no grain waylaid. Now Ann in a mirror, now Ann in a pool of her own suction. Now Ann in red. Now Ann in gold. O, Ann, what will become of you? Where do you really sleep tonight?
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| Resonant figures have the touch that turns us to Spiral, that's why I infern myself with Lacred Lux. |
But even despite the enormous, irrevocable popularity of the Britney halides, Tyler and Simon still at it, win the attention of vertices and nadir cross the screaming Rose, switching off rock-paper-scissors bursts to vales of cum or cumulonimbus urkish goggly-chords, reflex moan BLOOOD, more and more cancer; elongated pincers, Scyther like the emerald pandemic called Mulek, scary-face blurbs X tasty zoning in out each in others, others in each, budding plateau, musical chairs Tibetan_Samsara style but in meat, truly this spiritualized meat will be the next big thing. Next big thing. next. thing thing thing.
All this reporter has to say in response to these gossipract sights?
ChickaChickaboomboom will there be enough zoom?
Back to you, Smith.
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| And, O, how Judy Caesar ascends. |
This is the Wyrm.
Abandon all to the Wyrm.
More on the split-sun-scoop:
The 1264 leading out of the downtown Mestodian sector is clogged today with a terrorist faction, known as the 'Posh Cuticle,' forcing small highly sweetened gateways down the throats of unexpecting virtual drivers and virtual driven, inciting instant diabetes. Diabetic sun gums a fickle victory.
What Sport does spring in the Fields? Do you see the Golden Fawn?
For it is laughing and it is laughing and it is laughing.
What Creek does chill in the Woods? Do you see the Silver Doe?
For it is laughing and it is laughing and it is laughing.
What Mouth does fall in the Lap? Do you see the Bird of Fire?
For it is laughing and it is laughing and it is laughing.
What laughter in the Meadows that for so long were grown for Chew and Scream.
What laughter in the Houses that do shake with Gardens Mean and Strange.
What laughter in the Roads that were dense with Noise of Metal and of Carne.
Do you see the Skinless and the Sapless? The Sipless and the Shrillless?
For it is laughing too. And it is laughing. And then it's laughter.
This is the Wyrm.
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| Opening sometime in Late MAY, Khildrens Kare Kenter will host all sorts of Thick Sweets and Frail Limits! |
Now an announcement from our cultural analysis flambeau, Our Lady of the Teratoma.
Thank you, Gossamer Smith.
((Look into your hearts, my friends, realize this speaking from the inside-out.))
All meals, summer unusually soft, cares of the clouds each humid wrinkle, citrus rinded belly blanketing down (never lime or orange), taken on the balcony. People were watched walking up and down, new species of ice cached the eyes. Planes were missed but not forgotten. Passed over, like the brights colors of fallen flowers on the paths tanlining the road. So many things could've been done. We could've followed those people, accosted them, tore off everything so only the eyes were left and mothered those like trophies. But we sat, my boy and I. Watching, tickling, and eating squish.
Each meal was unique, handpicked by the kid. Each of his fingers, another dirty scratch. The colors he took so long selecting. Rubbing belly, pink with toes. But then most chromatic brilliance the sun humiliated. Drain, chopped into bland, ulraviolet bliss. So he kept a series of tubes to protect the colors, each shred of food banded zigzag thick like a labyrinth hamsterized and wet. His meal never easy.
Nothing much else, other than periodic rinsing of our form: his eyes had to be scraped up first and sometimes severely. They collect a musky residue, purple, coughdrift.
No one ever spoke to us, but all the same they made their laughter and lost it again in their other mouths. Again and again it was a movie they played in the hallways. "Listen to it, Mimi."
The kid would crawl into the corner of pepsiblue walls, his only toy a horse made from the coathangers. Things were said, talking spread in the cracks below his feet and trailed under him in a loud pond, squeaky with breathyrust. "you like the movies?" The kid stares outside, rain loosens cloud.
To wake up and see the kid in the morning. Those shirts, outsized with so many arms and odd attachments. "I make them for when I'm cold." It was very cold in the morning, but I had nothing to give my kid but the meals and the pleasure of the slaughtering battery, our sun. But as each day passed, it was noted that less did shine through.
The movies were growing and those walking were all on close-up even as they ran away. Each evening we pet each other, the kids hands smelly with crisco and penny. I gargled them all the same. He called them his truffle-puffs. Often that seemed to be the only word for them.
One morning the kid sat on the balcony, all the food had dried up and so he folded it into airships. Odd breadweird zeppelins, tethers and sails of vegetable tracing. Just before they set off over the street, they would turn back, mixtures gold satin worry. We sat, with no more food, but probably with no more hunger, watching as they traveled away, crossing over cloud. I held his feet in my mouth, so happy all at once for some reason. "just don't eat them up," he whispered, patting my on the head, even as I growled doggish. Waiting for our day to begin.
 Resigned to the Structures of their Hold, the Fallen Man shall know no Rest. |
All of us here would like you our listeners to remember:
No one is immune to foodborne illness. However, some people get sick more easily than others, or may be affected more severely if they do get sick. These easily-affected people are called Highly-Susceptible Populations, and they're divided into four groups. You can remember the groups that make up Highly-Susceptible Populations with acronym YOPI:
Y stands for people YOUNGER than five years old.
O stands for people OLDER than 65 years old.
P stands for PREGNANT women.
I stands for people who are Immune-compromised (this could be due to certain medications, underlying health conditions, or illness like AIDS, diabetes, or cancer).
Studies show, the Horse giveth and so the Horse taketh away.
Abandon all to the Wyrm.
