diary of the ponygirl

Premise: Listing-up like-belly-laughables; making them available, dintellectually [sic] - as a practical realisation of some loaded learning curve. Now then: All we are saying - manifesting, that is to say - is about some cack, dead-hand of some M. Kippenberger, fixing J. Jonah Cartoon; whilst thinking all the while that some ontological white line has been transgressed, blown away. One size fits all: A paint-splat on a gas-bill, framed in baby shit, hung in mid-air, using argon gas. Its title is code. Exams are needed. Admission is seemingly free, but is - physically, emotionally - costly and restrictive. There's no money in it, either. Measurements are made despite this. These are both prefigurative and a priori - some kind of cheap predictive. The mortality rate of these ideas is undetectable, except as black comedy. Ditto this: Scupture is included, also: a sports car, with double microwave ovum [sic], erouser-trouser-press, o/s map of e-Quatar, on a plinthe made of Alaskan snow and ice from a Jamaican fridge-freezer. This is lit by halogen bulbs, in pig skulls, in a sty made of discarded Coke Zero ringpulls.

One million years passes.