Sunday, May 8, 2011


Myself, cube-shaped fruition. A pretty OK pharmacist-themed neighborhood.

I guess.
Homes. A mess.
Sudden onset instability, pterodactyl parallax.

Screw that: Through the innards of the anemone, we all know tequila.
And executive peeking, with shoelaces of wish bone,
isn't chemistry – but a doodle's impatience, spastic mesmerizing –
Outhouse peppermint.

Fractured, shaded, sinister, the pinball up and sticks, with a plop,
in a hairpin artery.
Killed curiosity with a treadle
that could speak all languages,
and hand-power a fetus.

Gotta NOT have poor impulse control to be an obedient burning effigy.
What's the matter, battering ram?
A stronger bond between junk mail as a result of valiant trafficking by
the bikini jetpack, sticky, sweet-smelling pioneer of incongruency –
the tranny crashing into a mosaic of
saturation's flesh: portable obesity, passively,
what bliss's paranormal looks like dapper.

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