Cory Aycock


A retelling of the marketplace is only acceptable when mutants walk along looking for campsite firewood discussing exactly what a mutant is and its functionality compared to humanoid conversations that chiefly include terminology characterizations of conscious principles diverging oneself from the above-mentioned nomenclature of wasteland.


My stomach is definitely sour because of almond milk and lemons and my noggin is fucked by extended periods of world wide web technology scanning left to right mind-waxing quantum disappearing carnage of unfulfilled spiritual secrets outbursting interviews of reluctant idols streaming quasi-musings that lack a certain vigor and eat up experiential dopamine that numbs the twinkle-toe revolution while keeping baby boomers scratching heads simultaneously amazed with loving confused contempt. Is watching or reading experiences disallowing materialization in walking life? What is this place if not for the people walking around in it? I always wish conservatory minimalism was a conversation that could be had on a regular basis. Self-perception theory should be taken into account, even though the actual definition is different than what originally thought. Behavior seen as the basis of one’s identity doesn’t seem to be correct, but awareness of the inherent thought leading up to the behavior is where the juiciness is because behavior unthinkable is misidentity hence misnomer.


And then we pick back and I try to describe the ecstasy felt via disassociation and how it springs down to the core and radiates everything! … and you’d think the melancholia would subside but it just becomes dumbfoundedness, leaving a devaluation of all things sprite. — It defines ‘harbinger.’ ‘Harbinger’ over and over again. H-A-R-B-I-N-G-E-R until everything simply disintegrates into a cadence, and we no longer know how to feel. Constantly hearing the pulse and it’s undulating out of my body.


I feel as though I hurt others every time I open my mouth but then I realize my own insignificance. But then even so, I still hurt. It aches for the temporal understanding the same way every aspirational wag-dogger does and contemplation of one’s own nonsense becomes a bore. It’s actor fluctuation between true emotion and impressing via depth: the insecurity may be unwarranted at times but when verified it is crushing. Possibly in the future a picture of ones’ soul can be confined to a carried card and flashed to strangers so they’ll “know”? Perhaps these already exist and words like articulation, accountability, actuality … along with the other first vowel words, can create such an indication.


Only if a loud voice were to resonate words clearly on a continuous basis then all souls would smile and truth could be expounded for the moment until static and molasses begin bedbunking, and mosquito nets were placed in cabins A and B, according to precise measurements, using alabaster yardsticks and rubber gloves that smell of cotton candy, pigtails waving in a yellow breeze, frozen in time, cherished in a kidney-shaped compartment, donated to Univision, and up-for-grabs, every day of the week, when ticking hands touch corpuscle clouds … I want what everyone wants, I want what everyone wants! … I desperately want to share this with a young woman that I am in love with! I want her to have all of this as I slop back into somber melancholy stagnation. I imagine that she feels this way and then a funny thing happens to her, and her expectation becomes kitsch consciousness and her feelings are accentuated.


What is the meaning of a full moon and why is the thought of the moon not being real a change in consciousness that reverberates to Everett’s Parallel?

Croquet is now on the television prime time. Everyone is so polite and 8 lb balls are being used this season. The blonde-headed lady is a force to reckoned with but I get the strong feeling she has been hurt at some point in her life. That lawn cannot always stay mowed. That lawn is chaos. Her family watches in Idaho and only her father is able to detect this vast chasm.

My mind stirs and I look at the screen hoping for an old thought that has popsicles standing still on the Brooklyn Bridge and I run out and scream at the jets, 30,000 feet above, squinting my eyes at the beams!

A 400 lb lady spanks a newborn and mold grows on peanuts as a man in row D plays Candyland and he tries to understand that he can only change for a little while. He desperately wants to tell his ex-wife about the time he walked on hot coals after the BBQ, though.

Pre-thought of backlash hurts due to nonsensical and memorization is a tough mark, and the mark has become disconnecting scratches of the color green.

The hope is followed by a blanket attempting to find a drawer that never should've been opened.

I wonder about Russian dolls. I remember the years I studied them, microscoping every single stitch gasping at wagon red thread marks and turning the lamp sideways in order to see threads within the threads.

He was so alone with his coral metaphors taglined by a drumbeat never heard again because the ears are so tender and brings gobbles of associations that cannot be pronounced in the evening time nor the day.