Necropolis

Love is known as:

Every figure of love is a chain store mannequin. A voice-activated lens is marked on the reverse of storage and distribution. In transit, the location is more than one.

I can't believe this! The centre feed has arrived, darling. It's in that box. Between us we have the horns locked. We are convulsing through white noise, Beethoven-amphetamine in the Jaguar heat.

Skateboarder neuro logic is projecting a non-physical image of white noise and the Jaguar heat, psycho-social physical love, love engraved on Sunday night and on Monday morning.

Alienation doesn't do anything. It's too real. Breakfast and lunch, white noise in the afternoon. Newspaper columns like reverse skyscrapers spurn information at earth's core.

Libertine is the negotiator! A forgotten paté on the shelf reminds the sugar and tea and biscuits Cinderella's on television again. Pump on Cinderella! Spring your tins of marijuana scones. It's midnight and there's a full moon.

Her father is poisoned and buried. The Imperiatrix is reborn. The crime of attribution punished. A skateboarder dives into the crowd, running over the Hierarchs of Amerika.

My glitter nail polish is flaking. Customer information's closed. The negotiator libertine is the owner of the red Rover.

The Imperiatrix wishes it were so and so it is a conspiracy multiplied by the black watch on avant-garde television. To sword fight with the personality vehicle in subway space, like a fine art installation, like a Tory cut, sitting in the car and waiting yet again, you can open up. But no-one gets off lightly, like, it's the . . . Final solution.

We're in the visitor sector. We're pissing on the carnations. Watching virtually reality itself, the assassin is sitting by the phone.

ASSASSIN: (to receiver) Have you been at the gypsy moths again?

We're leaving customer service. We're disassemblages of nature and art. Embrace the drum and hit it. Caress every air condition. Art and nature are at the recycling centre feed, little foxy. Past the fast tanning new island, we're screeching past schedule like fuschia pastel, de-toxed rats with mechanical hearts.