(or) The New Automatic Writer, Powered By Mere Alcohol!

I do not frequently imbibe alcohol; my position being: if I want to poison myself, I'll gnaw on the contents of my landlord's mouse trap, and if I want to stop being sober, I'd sooner trust the contents of children's cold medicine. However, occasionally circumstances dictate that I engage in distasteful activities, if only to prove my inherent badassery to my more dipsomaniacal fellows. Upon putting that erstwhile plant matter in my innocent innards and eventually finding myself alone amidst the chattering crowd, I engaged in the closest thing I'll probably get to automatic writing. The results follow:

The cacophony of ages drains helplessly upon the aegis stomach of nighttime splendor. And kind whimsy can find a spot for comfort in the dragon-child laxity of coiled expense. The gourd of magic is passed into the mental typhoon. Hyperactive classes won't fly with me tonight. Alight and sigh between heaves of nocturne follicles. Corn and spiders be everywhere not morose. Coinage of might is the only way of spending growing sane. Try nothing and be happy. Hip hags and cripples aim for gypping the the go-to men for men of power. Monsters glitter and gored plates disdain the organ player at their peril. Corridors of navel trees abound in the etheric logo. Plinths and planks and plums point power and pink pale pools up, pound by pound. Is there a magazine of brazen logs, fired loud and flagrant?

The Middle.


Music For Your Ears To Taste: "Escape From Nebula M Spacehunter" by Daikaiju

~S-B