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We continue on each as the blessed with one wing

This diamond scripture, elicited by the non-pussy rain,

Is something so obscene that it cannot be milked by the caretakers of time

Watch your diving purse reappear in the walleted sky

Like a thesis carved on primordial salt straps

And wherever I go, the watchful, howling mint of ducklessness

Prescribes for me a jellied cataract in puberty

Lithe swine lessons on the market forces

Sexual and horticultural

Egress as a permanent tomb pretends to be the suspect

Just as joy eradicates co-conspiratorial rescue words

And no, I haven’t been able to get any of your money back

Picture that from your helicopter, powder puff

You’re talking right now with a startled tunnel

Nothing could be worse

Than having to make that body drive into certain cherubim


The disturbing idea of being forced to finish chance meats

The next, sir, is a whole day for the prefrontal cortex of Cadmus

It might be as simple as driving our trucks together, in Irwindale

And watching sweetened corn flakes rise up over the foundry

But here come the ghost treatments, the ghost kits, etc.

And now I see daddy treatments in the haptic space of wellbeing and study

A malbec for only liking at night, pallbearer-style

So I escaped once, from this tree as well, resurfacing again

In a gay bar, in Acapulco, wearing a straightjacket, leopard print

The smell of a sewer coming from, well, me, stirring my pozole with a kite string

Thinking, Amazing, Sonic the Hedgehog, I can’t go on,

I must go on, who else’s action of the seeker, getting right with Gnome,

For you I will appear, a purpuric white spillage, a Hollywood insider

A recording of prophets is what happened.


Usually I transform into a steak of my own soul, waiting to be free of lookalikes.

What really got me there, fam, was the fact that the shadow occupied a corner office.

Nah, I’m just kidding, dude. What you’re going to go through out there though… I’ll tell you right

now: I thought of asking for some help here, in this world, because of a sandwich that might have

lasted beyond its final moments, but in reality, bro, in REALITY, I enjoyed the misery of being

seated at the micronaut table, being seated among its treacherous corn pone delights. My night boars

scour the carnival grounds for me, searching in and out of the intermood tavernas, the diatribes, the

Mongolian pear factories. Usually, they gear up for water dreams, and I love them with all of my

tantric and oblong vision. The fish of the done:


The Sponge and the Spoon.


I’ll show you my scary summers, all 23 weeks.

They’re called The Stepmoms: I used to wear them

back when it was cute. These ones are different though.

The product is a little off. The body doesn’t even know why.

The milk is actually see-through.

I was just half-a-guy, and time was all over us.

How much to plug in my olive green sex toy?

The liquor stores in Los Angeles;

and all the guys who work there look like little liquor store partners.

Nicaragua and heart attack.

Telepathic windchimes. I just decided.

Tits so big they produce enough content.


LOSARC RAAL is not Carlos Lara. Raal was not born in Chula Vista, California. Raal's first book, No Material, is not forthcoming from Black Sun Lit in 2023. Raal does not live in Los Angeles with wife and tall son. He has never heard of Nomaterialism.

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