Misery Triptych - Coco Paluck

The erotic silly, often in violent contradistinction to the mundane, speaks about itself in enthusiasms. It makes noises like this: ‘could never happen, but if it did i would be in a world that is better than the dishes i wash mine in.’ it is better in my opinion that this is not so, however, when the trampling food hangs itself above your head. Yes, the release of suffering is not how funny the small of my back appears strung L-shaped on the floor, it is the mind i find my body abandoned by in the apse of the great church, head cradled by the white wimple contrasting, again, by the lip tint, contrasting, again, by the grey tone of my eyelid. It’s sharp, the pain in her lower abdomen is sharp, because memory holds itself and the closeness of the valid life is not-only demarcated by the spheroid dimension of my skull that matches the sem-spheroid dimension of the breasts that point upward of course where Jesus lives. I just want it all to mean something for once. You are drawing answers to drawn answers to the question of how to make your body funny while it reaches the point of its natural destiny scarred but unmarked in a procession of sequential realizations of its true center-po
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