diary of ponygirl

Premise: Listing-up like-belly-laughables; making them available, dintellectually [sic] - as a practical realisation of some loaded learning curve. Now then: All we are saying - manifesting, that is to say - is about some cack, dead-hand of some M. Kippenberger, fixing J. Jonah Cartoon; whilst thinking all the while that some ontological white line has been transgressed, blown away. One size fits all: A paint-splat on a gas-bill, framed in baby shit, hung in mid-air, using argon gas. Its title is code. Exams are needed. Admission is seemingly free, but is - physically, emotionally - costly and restrictive. There's no money in it, either. Measurements are made despite this. These are both prefigurative and a priori - some kind of cheap predictive. The mortality rate of these ideas is undetectable, except as black comedy. Ditto this: Scupture is included, also: a sports car, with double microwave ovum [sic], erouser-trouser-press, o/s map of e-Quatar, on a plinthe made of Alaskan snow and ice from a Jamaican fridge-freezer. This is lit by halogen bulbs, in pig skulls, in a sty made of discarded Coke Zero ringpulls. One million years passes.

Grow grow grow your gloat...

Because we are ignorant of such and such...of, say, thermodynamics, ranged over metal wires, as din, as sinewave, modified by devices, to sound like birdsong...we say these are

UN-NUMBER-ABLE-LAWS

a lemonade grenade, at laminar, or Batman on Robbin Island, or Lep Cern, as hubris, in dog house, as money shot, convened on esperanto swastika, as a secret homemade sex-device

ticking turds of FROWNLAND:POUNDLAND, NB. please:

a thickly-disguised iterative Goya Moog, with singing: '...Wittgenstein was a gas...'; then again, through speakers, '...Wittgenstein was a gas-ah...'. Our fulcrums from the giant's table... Oh, gelatinous guitars, gelatinous guitars... Amplified peach juice, agit prop dialectics...

Minidisc