Monday, May 23, 2011

YOU CAN'T HAVE SEX WITH THE NURSE

A cheap drink blocks the sun. A red, slit-eyed receptor is
rigged to the machine of the pimp. A urinal blends into
a vacuum cleaner. Its receptor also sees the blustery apparition
in terms of a very solid, implantable, pleasant sensation. 
 
My interpretation of the music box is that it emits in louche
waves. The droning of a dying potted plant overheard
in the office. The forgotten Pacific Ocean: a dead condom
conducting CPR on it. The misuse of a lizard inked onto a comet.
Illustrating to a group of school children decay's
needless bacon. And we, slow-glow bicycling.

The trapeze is unlikely to vibrate in real time. Instead of
snot swinging around the crossbar, you'd be a skeleton
decapitated with fur. An electrical apparatus' spray of
terrors metastasizing into a cartoon, stealing our souls
by regenerating a scarf. Like thermal imaging of a
mermaid on a treadmill, the eye disorder is still a
complete impracticality. The action figure's plastic sinews
taking its toll on the religious tolerance of nude people.
It is just Urban Outfitters being opportunistic with a
genome spork: it thinks it can make us feel special.

But with a burial casket lodged squarely in my vein,
I am inoculated against the tick of the clock, and
am now a happy ripple. The idle rich loves me. And I
explain to them my schadenfreude in D & D when
the nurse bites them, her contaminated drool representing
the machinations of a flooding garage, in whose gizzard
only I can sit and negotiate the electrified
buoys, in my K-9 tooth canoe. Compliments of NASA.

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