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 $$$                            by -> Mogel                            $$$
 $$$                                                                   $$$
 $$$        [ HOE E-Zine #921 -- 12/01/99 -- http://www.hoe.nu ]     .,$$$
 `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

	Brkoen glsas ctus me.
	The ascii characters you're scanning with your eyes are encoded
 with special sauce, baby, 'cause I'm thinkin' about the greatest romance
 in the world writing this, and it's oozin' out of each and every space so
 I'd better control the spaces, and I'd better make this run-on sentence
 shine, baby, so you can plainly see how utterly flighty and frantic my
 great glee can be.  I'm here for others, oh no, oh yes, and I'm here for
 you.
	I'm staring straight the fuck at you with my eyes years from the
 past, and you're reading this and you're where you're at and I'm where
 I'm at and I'm reading this too and ain't that crazy?  Are you the most
 intelligent being on the planet?  If you are, and you're reading this, I
 have contributed to your brilliance.
	I'm proactively acting, you sweet, sweet, son of a bitch.  Ten
 thousand sewn threads make up a shirt, but we'd need no motherfuckin'
 shirts, do we?  Our bare skins are supposed to be touching.
	Do you feel my skin?
	Do you feel how real I am?
	We're as real as reality is real, and as we wanna be, and that's
 as real as a banana peel that I feel when I squeal from your sweet touch 
 when we're fucking in the darkroom at my college university at 2am, and I
 can't think of anything more bizarre and romantic than love on a dirty
 floor with poisonous chemicals sticking to your back.

	I've got a special equation for you to plug in.

	Fuck          me           on           my          keyboard.
	Let's         make         it           a           t-file.

	Here is the result:

	I don't smoke, but I've smoked before.  It wasn't a mistake.  Hot,
 dirty air funneling through my compact flesh.  It felt good.
	Actions are reactions, and I'm thinking about the times I did
 something original and innovative and creative, and it's sedative.
	Corny rhymes sooth my senses.
	Sometimes I forget what I'm saying and I find something new.  A
 diamond in the rough cuff of my ripped shirt spurts a message.

	DID      YOU         SPOT          THE           TYPO       ?

	Memories are tainted with bias, broken to bits--sharp and
 revealing--like a broken mirror's fragments, taped to the insides of your
 eyelids.  That's melodramatic, but when Iiiiiiiii look at you, and when
 Iiiiiiiiiii look at your pretty, pretty eyes... you've got those eyes,
 baby, those sparkling eyes, baby, and your eyes, when they're sparkling
 like thaaaaat, baby, they look like perfect gem stones and I'm CAUGHT,
 you know, I'm caught like a deer in headlights, waaaaitin' for you to HIT
 me, baby, HIT ME with your whining generic girlfriend bullshit.

	I want to test you with a poke.  You'd say "ow," and at that exact
 moment I'd be able to finally confirm that your nerve endings were
 functioning and you are properly receiving signals from your brain and
 you were not in a coma-like state because you'd be responding directly
 with woooords as a reeeeeaction to my pooooooke, and we'd have something
 very, very special there.  We'd have a real connection of mental
 masturbation.
	I do want to make my dirty marks on this world.  Surrealist cut
 and slice is alright but if it ain't got the juice I'm not drinkin' it,
 and I like to drink from your malicious, marxist vagina like a cool,
 mountain-fresh river.
	Is there something wrong with me saying that?
	Deer Park, That's Good Water.
	I don't mind either way.  Typos make us human.
	I want to appropriate every fucking image drilled to death in our
 little beady heads and convert them to frost-bitten bytes.
	Fuck you, DISNEY!  heheheh!
	Suck my dick, 7-ELEVEN!  a-hoo!
	Hey Microsoft, YOU SO TOTALLY SUCK!!
	If I had 1 million dollars, I'd get a team of landscape artists
 and I'd sign the entire earth, so sucka mc's across the nation would know
 my mothafuckin' name is "MOGEL".
	My messages are real.  You are, in fact, really reading these
 words.  I am completely certain of it.  Your brain is choosing to decide
 what to do with the messages it is receiving, and you are processing,
 changing, deciding, judging, thinking, loving, hating, living, breathing,
 and fucking me.  You really are.
	Is there anything wrong with me saying that?
	There's ten-thousand surface layers we've got to chisel through
 you and me and in between till we understand what the hell any of these
 memories are telling us.  Significance is as significant as you want--but
 what happens when they taunt?
	I'm taunted by you for being alive, but I wouldn't have it any
 other way.  So let's play.

[--------------------------------------------------------------------------]
[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!    HOE #921 - WRITTEN BY: MOGEL - 12/01/99 ]
