Running the Gauntlet

When I get back to the office, I'm going to start a new painting.

You're encountering living information, we're attempting communication. But it's me who's running the gauntlet.

You have a microsecond to portal the plasmas with the sounds of murder, ghosts of children, interlaced gateways to ancient caverns, holographic data compression systems, increase the frequency, for there is no 3D matter in the vibrational high energy phantom field.

The hoverlaunch chauffeur, one of the plasmas, has a dagger stuck in the back of his neck.

'We're so transcendental!'

The body's an adaptation, empty space in which all there is is a direction in the other side.

No, I didn't order chaos, I called for negation of the negation of the negation of the negation of the negation of the negation of the negation. . .

Diaspora of contagion, liege of grunge city, rosebud pistol on a little plate of tongue, the adept cryogenic, automated angels, I keep saying: be more robotic.

I've got a a death chant, I'm a sex slave, I've got a video link to table service on request, a Volkswagen burning in the grounds of the estate, I've got a hair of the dog philosophy barking in chains out in the yard, I eat metaphor like popcorn at the cinema, I've got a soapbox religion, a Eurotrash media whore, ultra-violent in the high energy state, suffused with rivers of a green light nectar, a spawn of the Necropolis. I have the spine of a quilted mattress; I'm heaving gadgets, suicides, dead aliens, ghosts, a storm of archangels.

It takes guts to vomit them out. Take them out. Take them out.

'It's our birthday soon.'

Angels have no mass. They are augmented by U-TI-LI-TY!

There is no evidence for a space-time continuum. Take it, take it. It's you who's running the gauntlet.