Mark Amerika is the author of several books about the evolution of culture as well the keeper of AltX - and the father of Avant Pop. He wrote this letter just for you, specifically.

Lettre Lettre On The Wall

Hi,

just back from the net-lit groupie scene of London

toking in the killer burbs of Boulder

heat & wheatgrass & personalized gymnastics

no hamburg(er) connection but totally french-fried.

oui?

one night stands out in particular:

the endless slow-motion figure of
Eve's dropping

(bodyacid)

her lips were thick and her tongue painted
wild brushstrokes all over my swollen
loco-motives

it felt like the endless thrust of a mobile chunnel
funneling some rare form of liquid desire
straight into the deep north of a throat
caught on fire

her dream-narrative "glom"-ing onto something serene

(something like me)

the interiorized Netscape

falling

falling        

falling             

(but then I finally made it home

              saved by the Belle: I love big asses --         can hide
inside them all night long)

meanwhile

today

woke up

totally in touch with nature's own imagination

crystallizing some fossilized moment of Timelessness

streaming through my recently upgraded Sexual-Blood technology --

The Ecological Conscience:
dragged out kicking.

Blue Sky sending me email telling me how caught up she was
in the hot love lava of last night

meanwhile, go to the Ped Mall and, looking up
see smegma skies smeared
with birkenstock tofu
rolled in a whole wheat tortellini

(with a side of testosteroni, pure noodle-think:
balls to the walls)

slurp-slurp

another potential environmental crisis forming in my pants

(maybe it was just a zit, but it felt more like a small welt: MADE ME HARDER)

slurp-slurp

a polemical stress factor

(40% of the people surveyed said they DON'T believe me but they still dig my style and think it's okay for me to receive blowjobs)

slurp-slurp

a lettered nuance

(Dear A, I want to swallow you -- Love, Your Personal Slut)

and then

in the middle

in the middle of the breach:

a cacaphony of machines

fast, cheap & out of control

an army of swirling applets made of hurricane-impact Capital

Capital Integrity(TM)

(oxy moron? yes. but does it get rid of ass-maligned zits?)

by the buy

(Dear A, You owe me the fucking world and now it looks as though I've got you by the balls, Hero-Boy. I think it's time you just face reality and totally give in -- Love, Daddy Nanobucks).

Yesterday was great. Two things of note happened:

1. A round of post-contemporary classical behavior (insinuated by the in-betweeness of emotion flowing from the absolute presence of an eerie ambiance called Post-Industrial Info-Banality). I played sex-chess with a Full-Moon Night In Shiny Armor (patent leather skinreflections: holes cut out to expose the febrile flesh: my meat amore). She mated me, I mated her. Queen. Rook. Check. Check Again. Non-Stop Checking Until, Finally, Checkmate. Total Ejaculation. Death of a pawn.

2. Just spawning (surfing -- sampling -- manipulating).