I heard that you people can spend money. Well, have I got the paste for you!


. This paste is made out of milk. You can take it anywhere. The friends won't push you over for this one!
My pasta isn't anywhere near as bad as this paste, and yet, the pasta isn't worth your !
Give me flecks of your long tall ego now.

Introducing: cuba
it's hard and it's made out of food
and my tummy curls up and gets unpleasant to look at
we spend every night on a ship made out of our compressed voices
and we slide out of the keep, passing deflated psychedelics on our hourly way by, to the magnetic tape room
our prunes intact, while you die of starvation
and i'll hold your beautiful scallywag of a corpse and await the ringing of my ears

I'm not one to call myself a shoehorn, but boy, if that wasn't a crouton!

AND SO, I MADE MY WAY TO TIGHTWAD CENTRAL
AND I TOOK A NEEDLE TO MY SKELETON (I SWEAR, I'LL FUCKIN' DO IT, MAN!)
AND AND AND
BUT YOU SHOVED YOUR PUSHY DIAGRAM INTO MY FACE
BUT YOU STATED, "NO, NO, NO, NO..."
FOUR.

We lived in the construction paper house, in Vietnam. Under the bathtub is where you died! It happened one time when the soldiers and I ate glue and milk and harvestmen and listened to the paper radio. We told ourselves and our men across the airwaves that you were a lost cause.

Four years later, when the house had appeared on the lawn of a suburban house, a new couple moved in. The new inhabitants were a woman and a man; both of them looked as if they were under 20 years of age. They were both strong willed, but nobody on a grand scale can resist or escape the temptations of childhood!
Several cold, desolate months had been spent in that house by the couple—of the two, but one of them had retained any good amount of sanity; the woman made messes, the man cleaned them up. The house collapsed in on itself in a snowstorm, the man hoisted it back up again. The noises from the crayon drawings on the walls of the house got louder and louder, the man made sure that they were wiped from the jagged-surfaced paper.
A solution could not have been more obvious for his crumbling mind; when the tasks and the consequences of sleeping on mattresses made out of pale sheets of coloured construction paper and living in a house where the employment of such material as a substitute for any other non-consumable materials became overwhelming, he stumbled out of the flimsy doorway, onto the lawn, wet with March rain in one of the final few moments of his life, in the worst state of health that imagination would permit the though of how poor a person's condition could be. He was bloated and sick from eating a diet that consisted of glue mixed with archaic milk and harvestmen and loose leaves of baby spinach that had fallen out of a soldier's pocket four years earlier. His face was filthy, covered in coagulated glue and wet bits of spinach. His hair was an unkempt mess—the sole being who had been observing it in his recent state being his violent, dementia-stricken lover, with her rabid, helpless eyes.
The man winced at the sight and reaction of the authorities that stood on the edge of the lawn, ignorant of the meaning behind his pleading that was fast becoming more and more incoherent. They broke the man's will similar to how immovable walls in an impossible labyrinth would, confident in acting that he should be treated as hysterical and over-dramatic. They told the man to make his way back into the house—"for [his] own good." The man discharged the contents of his stomach onto the lawn, and the policemen laughed.
He would be forced back inside, feeling apathy, while the metaphorical worm inside of his mind—the sole entity remaining on Earth that had continued to care a great deal about him—while panicked and exhausted, cooed warnings at him, telling him that it would be better to risk dying through fighting his way past the authorities than go back into that house. He wound up back inside with the woman regardless; moments after he had closed the house's paper door, she began to be make noises from the bathroom. "Help me! Help me! Help, help, help, help, I need your help..."
As it had been throughout the duration of the man's time inside of the paper building, memories of the remarkable companionship between him the woman—how she once was several months ago, before her mental state deteriorated from living in the house—kept the man from ignoring her, or leaving her behind. She seemed to be making noises from under the construction paper bathtub, which was notable for its crude design and poor structure, looking out of place when compared to the rest of the house's smooth paper craft. The tub looked as if it were intended to be a single-piece bath and shower set, with its outside merging into the greyish-white paper floor by the man's feet. The dim light coming from the construction paper light bulb above the man's head, to his back, cast his shadow down onto the "floor" of the bathtub—a large, rectangular sheet of white construction paper—which held its place without motion, with its middle locked in a considerable downward curve.
The man leaned forward, in confusion. The woman ran from behind him, and pushed the man into it; the construction paper of the bottom of the bathtub tore, and he fell into a deep pit that was filled with milk and harvestmen. The man died of shock as she laughed, and screamed, and hollered, and stomped her feet, and took the child that the man had made out of construction paper and threw it into the bathtub, and grabbed their pictures that had turned into construction paper and threw them outside, and the house moved back to Vietnam, and that’s when there wasn’t any other interesting bite left of this part of the story to tell,




i don't want to live off of that noise don't touch me a man's gotta eat lookin' for a headache