Remember that movie the Host from Korea? Remember the monster in it?

Remember that movie
the Host
from Korea?
Remember
the monster
in it?

How it swallows
that girl
and throws her up
alive
in a
sewer?

And keeps
her there?

Only now
the monster
keeps her
there
then comes back
and swallows
her.

And throws up her
bones.

Here's a clip from Thursday's upcoming episode of the Tyra Banks Show

my plans for the next time i see you, Steve.

Steve.
next time i see you
i will kiss you
9 times
in six
different
places
behind your jaw.
I will not
be pretending
I'm
a vampire, either.

it sucks i can't keep which people i know are dead or not

it sucks i can't keep which people i know are
dead or not, i keep remembering that they're
alive but in my mind they're dead because they're
so close anyway or because they died and it
didn't affect me. i can't remember who's
dead. who's alive. worst of all is that i am
reminded who is still alive. i have plane
tickets dedicated to these lives, but
they're already gone in me
and that's why it sucks and why i'm an idiot

they will eat you and i will eat you and they will eat everyone

there are so many things that will never be cured so many
things that will only continue consuming constantly consuming
we will be consumed by these things all of us consumed
and eaten hungrily and we will eat these things and these
things will eat each other and eat us and we will eat them
and each other and ourselves, i have already begun eating
i've cut off my foot and cooked it and am eating it and i
want to watch you eat my legs after you cut them off and
i will eat them too and you will eat me and i will eat myself
and many things inside me will eat me and eat you and
they will eat you and i will eat you and they will eat everyone
and everyone will consume me and you and everyone else

Sorry. I am helping them adapt. Next time they'll be more invisible.

i don't bother taking my clothes off to sleep, hoard candy and junk

i don't bother taking my clothes off to sleep, hoard
candy and junk food like a rat and eat it crouched
in the dark pretending it's raw flesh with my eyes
reflecting the light from some ambitious unfortunate
photojournalist who i now get to cut open and eat

between the cab and the bed, massacred, gasps for air, fingers

between the cab and the bed,
massacred, gasps for air, fingers
curled coiled wires bouncing
in transit, hot intestines squirming
out and cuddled up against
her body, hair slicked back
and stomach grinning wide

a snake with arms that crush everything

a place turned inside out were it
without overhangs of aging stonework
bent like tired trees over, with a
focus so lush and wet
a shallow, saturated richness. the sound
of light rain when it isn't raining, the fog
of memory covering anything beyond the
nearest tree line, stood in the beginning
of what would have been anthill chambers
now collapses over centuries. too slow
to see. up in the nest, one eye
glowed waiting for white children to
step too close. a snake with arms that
crush everything

I am constantly stumbling across people writing stories about and concerning

I am constantly stumbling across people writing stories about and concerning Tao Lin. Everyone desperately wants an autobiography, one that TL writes on a whim. This is how it will go:

After many days of thinking about it, I wrote: [insert entire text of EEEEE EEE EEEE here].

And that would be the end. I'd read it. And everyone would say it is good and write about Tao Lin writing it. It would be good. I'm now Tao Lin's biographer.

more drawings because i can't write as myself at the moment (see Pink in the sink)

In the middle of writing I sneeze but suffocate it. Now no one knows I sneezed.

everything on shore is
perfectly still

and begging to begin
humming. an almost
buzzing for a shudder

out on the lake a boat
surrounded by no waves

floats in a shipless sea
ragged and skin, the slowest
sink both at sea and on shore

dark starless empty road through sand or perhaps tall grass or short grass for that matter

new care passing through while jug drinks roadside

only a lone panther eyes grey and it and god big cats alone with the lord

only a lone panther eyes grey and it and god
big cats alone with the lord, sipping pink wines
whose bubbles hop scotch up along whispers
violins pluckt with harpsichord harshnesses
big cats alone with the lord, golden couches
melting slowly, paris out the window under
pink wines fizzing. the surface of the ocean
with goosebumps, bugs bumping up and
shaking into the air, alone with the lord

Sheila lay in bed so often that pillow after pillow was aware

Sheila lay in bed so often that pillow after pillow was aware.
They lay there nested 'round her, whisp'ring in her ear.

Marjory, or Midge, lets herself go. On a loveseat in a living room in an apartment

Marjory, or Midge, lets herself go. On a loveseat in a living room in an apartment, Midge imagines she is a bundle of foxes wrapped in a fur coat. Midge licks around her fingers and around her fingers. They say, if you love something let it go. So Midge lets herself go. Midge is happy. Licking her fingers. On a loveseat. In an apartment's living room.

There is no TV in this apartment's living room. So Midge flicks through boogers not channels and little turds. Midge's eyes are loud when she moves them. And glossy. Midge is on a loveseat.

I'm trying out new lip glosses. On my lips-I'm trying them out on my lips.

I'm trying out new lip glosses. On my lips-I'm trying them out on my lips.

gold curling 'bout the edge of winter leaves dead

I want to fall asleep whenever I want to instantly or within seconds

I want to fall asleep whenever I want to instantly or within seconds and to be able to say that I've slept through 5/6 of the weekend and loved it. Then I would sleep through 5/8 of the work week or possibly 7/8. I wouldn't sleep the whole time.

There must be almost ten or exactly ten versions of Howl published

There must be almost ten or exactly ten versions of Howl published and just in my old school's book store. I noticed months ago each version of Howl promises something different and pretends to be something new. But they are all still Howl and I want these paragraphs to be justified.

It's February. It still smells like winter and it's still cold outside.

It's February. It still smells like winter and it's still cold outside. All the water is frozen down to the bottom. There's no tip to the iceberg. Quiet grows exponentially in relation to how cold it becomes. Outside it's creeking like an old house. Outside I feel the street. Vestigial limb that I've been poking obsessively. Needles & pins, hopped up, I massage it to ease the feelings out. The street an old organ falling off.