Tuesday, January 31, 2012


mucus membranes generally
don't cope well in the vicinity
of Godzilla's gravitational nucleus,

subjected to the G-force of a bus
and unable to do anything to
change the course of a sneeze – into a
politer direction – or the roll
of a booger, nor anything

about the chaotic peripheral
phenomena folded into the sneeze/booger's
manipulated time-frame –

like no less than five grommets are
integral to the CPR dummy
making this really scary pentagram of slime



I'll mask my knowledge with an upside-down dumpster,”
the beggar thinks. “That way, CIA hackers won't get jack off me.”

At the sewing machine,” my grandma said, “it's advisable to
put on your auxiliary visor.”

It was grandfather's wont to always cockily state: “In my day, lasers
attached to farm animals aided in the harvesting.”

Knowledge A: Cremated panties are bubbles.

Knowledge B: Each person is splashy when they die.

My grandmother said that, sitting at her old Singer, she was in close proximity
to the earth's fuel. She was creating, after all – though
nothing was really real, anyway, as our Alien overlords would've had
us think – they graciously put my grandfather's wig on the toilet seat
to simulate a seat warmer – “everything's a simulation,” my
grandmother liked to scarily hiss – and when I was little I noticed that
sitting on the wig, crapping, the same ozone was released as by an Ewok
in the electric chair.


The alien DNA with which I've been injected has to a small extent
resulted in deafness, but also turned my speech, particularly my
cries for help in the nighttime when I'm having bad dreams, into this
weird squawking which, after fifty meters, breaks into tinny clusters of
sound frozen in midair like noticeboard pins. I dream about the ghosts of
mites; they're clamoring for attention on the gothic tundra of
my pillow. I'm frequently very old in these dreams. And solar flares
erupt from my crutches – which I guess I'm OK with.

Sunday, January 29, 2012


Ross was a Mexican hippie, as such his mental development had been directly influenced by swimwear fashion's assimilation of Klingon home furnishing. A surprisingly boner-inducing combination. Sun-bleached from too many episodes masturbating in the flat's solarium, totally out of sight from anyone except the animated Jesus .gif on his laptop. His health affected by the CO2 emissions of a contingent of porcelain Mickey Mouse water jugs instead of the usual cast members, for days on end. Under its heat the solarium can change the parameters of erotic toys' hinges – where we'd be looking at a set of totally different joints moving in swamp lava, skulls like bearings – befuddled by their amazing skull moves. Alone grinding a wedding dress from a sleek beautiful fish's tapering surface. How long afterward would you be licking your toothbrush? Did you know the little organisms that caressed the bristles had stone-blood in them? It was bought at a gift shop on a Klingon war vessel, its peeling decal on the handle was wonderfully sinister, disparaging Ross's halitosis instead of providing encouragement to combat same, also it sounded like a buzzer – totally bad (the toothbrush did) – as it brushed over teeth that craned their necks like the spouts of really hot beers. (“The set's atmosphere - the entire sitcom's atmosphere – is too funereal! I'm staying here!”) Brushed sort of between them but not really ... saliva full of isotopes that clumped into wart-like asteroids in contact with Jennifer Aniston's nipples, leaving the latter broken and tasting of wet glass. “Turn off the radio, will you?” she says – in his hair as he rolls over she sees evidence that wax and motion sickness DO mix. Soon conditions return to normal, they're listening to a sound that's still safe to listen to.

Friday, January 27, 2012


The drive-thru is a more intelligent design than the mind's flutter valve. My trash lumped in with aluminum foil makes it hard for Walmart to interpret my thoughts in the dark. To know my lusts. Everything's hard to find in the dark, everything. The plastic bag they found on Mars was full of bile. Sci-fi flakes right off of my new couch like nanobot dandruff. Decoration of gingivitis. Toenails are about all there is to the sleeping policeman – I drove over it as fast as I could because the dinosaur was distracting – roadside entertainment; but the flowers were ugly. The essence of the lawn is the moist kidney stone. Your roommate on the Death Star's long dick. You fucking scream: so that the person on the other end can hear you. In the secret cabinet of the concrete mixer. Nausea knees while torturing animals, in killing machine-sweat pants.

Thursday, January 26, 2012


Because every time in my lab,
it's difficult to see what
you can hear.

Mountain Dew decontextualized in the guillotine.
Heard or seen? You can “SEE” your amoeba tanning
under the Big Bang's ancient UV strobes, surely?

Kermit's lobotomy sounds crisp – e.g. a green tomato
frogging in a robot's armpit.
Puppets of a wrapped atom, pleasuring audiences circa 1938.

Before discovering artificial life, I tried to master/elude
death by taking my coroner on a romantic Ferris Wheel ride.
It also helped to differentiate death's usual kick to the nuts
from the eternally dangling solar rays light-seconds within
my grasp.

If from one day to the next 4chan can be defiled,
by a garden variety pork volt – basically by a homeless man -
cabbage can be turned to plush by chemistry normally
only good for scarring. Look up at the sky – and see
the claw marks.

I'm busy reading now that the gerbil is at its ontological peak
when on a talk show only without a helmet. Hmm.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012


A delight to be rural driving, with a dead dove stuck in
the windscreen wiper. Then in the midst of that to also be
buried alive, and then also mysteriously wind up on someone's
windscreen. In the universe, miniature– in barely
a metaphysical matchbox. In fear of the cannibalistic chest pain,
stalking this realm, sitting on this realm. Pecking?
The dead dove consisted of coiled slimy tubes five minutes
later. Strapped down by an inch of avian yeast tongue.

Rural walking, at that spot where a thumb blackened USB stick
is purported to haunt people – when suddenly comes
the warning “[to not] walk there.” What the fuck?
Of all things, a shape-shifting retina begins to waver in front
of the unfolding nightmare. The Atari console begins to
come off onto one's clothes. The steam-powered finger
begins to engage (per design) in excessive medical gouge-out.

These are therefore the things that tried to remain united
but after a small incident lay littered everywhere:
i.e. shredder and mint – ass and donkey -
checkbook and rubber band. This is the ice age's broken glass
and these are the industrial pajamas born of it.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012


Shirtless, I always appear missing off the system!
Morphological features fluctuate like urban decay's
animatronic scab. New enzymes seem to take turns
juxtaposing my stomach's inner appearances!

In sacred outage, polymerize your brains out.
With chemical reactions, open a portal in the dance floor!
OCD is rampant at the zoo how it boosts the bear's
compassion for its new egg! A bit harsh optical illusion, man.
The g-spot flap is just a trick of the light.
To call a blessing like this from Heaven a choking hazard...

Always believed free-range sleeping pills
make the biggest brainwave difference.
Would not have rubbed goo into my eyes with
a mop if I didn't like it! In formaldehyde coming up
for air the love meter dimming. See faces in
discount meat, like a profound loss marked by memory foam!

An inert stud, sputnik sleeps in a diaper. The baby seems
to like all the electrical and mechanical equipments I hope it
won't lead to language spasms? It used to be the preserve
of magic mushrooms, all the germs in the bankie somehow burst
into a molecular cloud now worn by the troll doll drug mule
as an Afro!

Monday, January 23, 2012


She noticed the black mountains
on only a couple of occasions – in the convent –
avoiding typecasting their maker as
the evil cat butt-faced nun, by sitting on them,
covering black cones ... No mystical powers
were actuated except for the cadaver-flavored long silence,
on her integrated Nintendo Geiger counter
rumble-matic radiation was also read.

After the stray pit bull split that gentleman in
the public restroom into two halves – the lower half
folding down, like a battery lid - the computer in there
with them raised her eyebrows. The green smudged Button B
on her bladder put it in “bicycle mode,” in this case
instead of paddling away she peed, pixels, sort of,
their stacking edges letting in dirt from the murder
surrounding the puddle. Plagued by something she saw.
Mystical powers in a ski mask.

Every gizmo appeases the gods where it toilets.

Sunday, January 22, 2012


lip drooping, in resignation meets with its own jug-necked
Kool Aid/claw-held

for Pinocchio's crude, sticky nose to no longer
blow MS Paint like a crow's voice, lost in used 
panties courtesy of KFC - his sister's, in tandem, 
presumably, with flurries of obscurity - a 
cleaning cutlery with dental floss montage 
conveying despair as infectious as skinning a mime

the turd bobbing up and down on the airwaves 
and the DJ's hot cup of coffee that caught it
emblazoned (the turd, in Garamond) with the lie
the perfect person moreover cares about 
the plastic trees and moldy treasure chest in 
their aquarium”

Saturday, January 21, 2012


The appeal to Freemasonry is mainly because I can't
piss when my dog's watching. OK? It also promises
to move me one substrate lower, to not only improve mood and
blood pressure – but to obviate the need to have to look down
to find lost coins, dangerous cracks in the pavement, etc.
Spine corrected, mind shook straight – by the harsh
resounding cough of the emphysemic lobster beneath
the pot's lid. It sufficed for a while. Bellows that pumped
aromas culled from cinemas! The kerosene lamp that entered
like a ninja into some hippie's sensory deprivation sandcastle
was my end-of-tunnel light – a bit fragmented like a dried inkblot.
It was a beautiful sandcastle until some noisy, chatty raven
kicked it in with its orthopedic foot. Goddamn! - how one
instantly witnessed a wonderful, if residual, resurgence of
seepage from neighbors lying through their teeth.
The collecting of frat party jelq for oozing petri dishes in
home economics. Doll parts presiding over spooky anomalies
in swing sets. The accelerator in my leg braces was dripping
goat blood; I lost count of what-all at the point of developing
a sexual attraction towards sparky twisty mad scientist laboratory-ish
hotrods. Papier mache hinge mechanism to lift arms outstretched
for love – causing a draft that hits everyone's left eyeball like
an arrow. Sweeps away the solarium snow angel's smell of burning flesh.

Friday, January 20, 2012


Cadaver. Out of places to put tissues.
Escape pod: one out of nine fence-humping canaries.
The mine of jazz dwarf purity
had belched velvet; the monster truck's dong had
tasted like chicken. The eater notchy from bulimia.
Hum garage abstract, hum. Colors of the map:
perhaps corduroy?


I'll capsule you without being overly heavy...
I do not think about these things
I think of urinal cakes in your palm.
Taco Bell pterodactyl: priapism to hold like a kite
on a hill at the loneliest point in the October 2004 wind.
Church turd pet fish bastard plastered – the plumber's.
Gone to sleep with a funnel in their mouth.”


Callus, just take care. Callus, just take care. Just
waiting for the diagnostics to complete.”


They say it's easy to escape because the sanitarium's only
barbed wire spends its time trying to overpower the baby tree
in the middle of the courtyard.

It's possibly my buddy Cyclops' first real close glimpse of
the real world. His first real one-eyed close-up of a
medium-to-rare steak was probably afforded when he was wearing
a medium-to-rare steak on his head.

I'm in luck //
Just have to take my foot off the armadillo //
Good bye, armadillo.”

On the steak's plateaus // microbes' legs were being amputated //
The death-dance of an approaching rake // that would clear them all away //

We hook up with two conjoined Cinderellas // at a themed grocery store //
Aleister Crowley in his signature sweater // fluffy with Hell's steam //
Beneath a cuckoo clock waiting for // the hour to strike 13 //
At first mutely hiding behind a badly positioned // fanny pack //
behind the Barbie Doll Eye Patch™ // behind Grace Jones' radiator //
a clown phallus jumps out.”

It's not the sort of welcome from the “real world” we were expecting.

With skin stretched taut across your face,” he says to the demonic “cuckoo,”
how do you sleep at night?”

Wednesday, January 18, 2012


I'm a stray cigarette lighter. I'm laying around on a windowsill and at first
it was good to just lay around like this but it's quickly beginning to feel
like I've been put down here and that my owner has forgotten about me!!
No one's coming back for me!!

The plenty of downward motions it requires to operate me.
The million-haired plait of consciousness self-urticating upon
each realization that soon I'll be syncing, body and soul, with
the dust-devils on my owner's (ptuh!) dirty windowsill.

It's not an organ but an anatomical inkblot. Sour chemistry soaked it
up leaving only a bag of nails. On spinach, Popeye's perineum
was not the easiest thing in the retirement home to fold flat.
Everything's gonna be neat and sleek by midnight when the
orderlies have swept through with their chemicals save this … object.

Then it's the shop assistant's turn to communicate telepathically
with the mannequin:

In an experiment, scientists wedged cardboard
between the shop assistant and the mannequin's respective
blasts of ESP – they habitually communicated in telepathic barks –
which soon soaked into the cardboard leaving it looking like moth wings;
this digital display then appeared in the marshy fluttering:

You look good externally. Your head doesn't look like it's
been chopped off. Boobs – yours – look good externally. Extremely.”

Then it's the mannequin's turn to communicate telepathically
with the shop assistant:

I think my fly might be down. Especially in this gravedigger hunch,
I think certain things might begin to fall out. I'm waiting for the hemorrhages.”

Buck Rogers personified as the Darwinian dynamo
behind this sick, sick infomercial touting a new
Death Star – they're saying it doesn't feel like a
fibrous mineral to the touch, like the old Death Star.

A Brylcreemed car salesman-esque Buck Rodgers wonders:
Could lifting the old Death Star on to and off of alcohol-soaked
foam have been responsible for its ivory bikini line?”
The emperor, one of the most Shakespearean orators in the universe, had
complained that the consoles could be “a little clicky.” It didn't reflect good on
either the owner or the maker.

There's always room for improvement,” he says sitting on a plush divan,
directly facing a blonde woman whose head for some reason is turned
45 degrees to the left at all times. “Vader's costume is an example
of this. It looks like the cover to an IBM computer. There's only one
toggle switch to call up different menu items. No storage box or espresso machine in the chest, etc.”

The blonde woman, facing the Emperor, is looking just skew across Buck Rodger's shoulder at a piece of stage equipment against which a young man leans
twisting his finger in his ear.

Monday, January 16, 2012


The fate you're dependent on is an itch.

Two and a Half Men quadrupling the rancid molecule.

Their objectification of household items: triggers the
sewer system singularity. Moon morgue toe stink.

Hip to knee in the duck swimming pool sphincter
until the moon fidgets, Buzz Aldrin's
O-face automated in the grip of “hate everything,”

from afar it tosses him;
galactic bonanza of skateboard cheese beautiful beautifuuuuuuul
from this naked upside-down angle.

Into the trip computer's bong circuitry we TRONNED ourselves;
among all these skulls I can't reach the PlayStation to clean easily.

Until the nurse arrived, I was seriously into calculating the length
of everything, the sublime sodium sodomizing sugar cube, etc –

And one was apt to wonder about the cube: “Like, is it a fossil?”

They will let you go once you can render your self-esteem
into a pictogram of a T-bone steak fitting into the mental disorder's puzzle;
paranoia is perhaps the biggest rumor monger of all.
In Mad Cow aftershave is what the surfer wets their lint.

Sunday, January 15, 2012


I didn't deliberately let 3-D glasses ruin my barmitzvah.
After seeing Pokemons with mullets, a gothic David Hasselhof,
and question mark-shaped antlers on every head, I Windexed the lenses

The swamp's watercolors still aren't pressed firmly enough on the
amphibious stencil. Popcorn is just obese raisins with the healthy glow
of ghosts. Not even with a shovel could you ever lift one horrorlump
after passing it through a wormhole – as heavy as a symphony of pigeons
in a clothes dryer.

Does everyone feel the genome programming them to be hungry?
Does each genome have to be readjusted after coming in contact
with a mousetrap? Nail-biting still helps one reach one's interior plastics,
their electronic tics just a bit noisier than I'm used to. So if you ever wondered
at the sound of the alarm clock of a serial killer...

Carry-on size, luckily the brain is not like such an old mobile phone.
Eventually it proved impossible to keep its orientation relative to
the pilot lights constellating my apartment, when through two walls you
could hear the squeak of Godzilla fitting his condom.

Friday, January 13, 2012


empty milk carton, I can foresee an
accident happening at night,
every night – in the night time

where there's evidence of a crash on
the floor – the yeti high five bumper sticker motif,
from a lump of egg fist

two weeks earlier, my mind-altering experience at Sea World:
a Fish & Chips puree, windy interstellar rhyme –
the conduct of the dolphin was excellent

who else but the goblin in the
ATM's armpit became unstuck at first wash
geographically, unloosened dirty sneaker footprints below

Velcro succumbed to nun-zilla –
a sort of nun but with her suspenders
turned upside down afforded her blades
a larger area coverage

not since the local sheriff dumped that claw
he'd found in a field into formaldehyde
and sat down and studied it while
thumbing his cheek with the foot of his chair

black ink colliding with the body's scaffolding
the fallout of mystic babbling – a fart that
blew away the butt cheek shadow puppets which
subsequently migrated to the dawn's dancing red curtain

Thursday, January 12, 2012


onion palm sweat had had
and had dropped an harmonica in the past:
did not feel it was being too heavy
on that metal

ill-considered, today the system's 'unholy'
is too low down

scientifically proven to mash jellyfish
but it becomes a barely
edible crochet, goop issued
from the permanent marker
in its vow to fuck it 
an anorexic's different texture,
as if taught hair removal in Sex Ed -
hypnotized to commit mass suicide

conjugal beef jerky leaning over
the shrink-wrapped diaper
thinking it's so pretty

but couldn't these onion
layers in my hands have
coaxed this monastery off and onto
Urban Outfitters' diabetic
rotating platform?

amputee horsepower fog machine-appended
to the stump, MacGyvered onto and from and into

sonar – several clicks on its remote required to
follow train tracks' nylon residue

after which we all hail the toaster that was inconsiderate to
angora in clothing but offered
a vent straight to Mordor

Wednesday, January 11, 2012


Spanning across short finger parts, Lycra makes for an awkward park bench.
So does even the most genetically modified armadillo.
We shall rather find comfort in coming over to your pad and stroking
your fridge – comfort in the release of soft tissue noises from its casing.
It harbored the mango aesthetic our alphabet uses to lay foundations
at the bottoms of crossword puzzles; unfreed, a trillion snorkels
in the mouths of near-drowning dust mites would tickle – with
their sharp burbles – the soggy carpet on the fridge's rack
that would in time grow from it. The next phase is shape-shifter slime
you'd reprimand your children for taking to every goddamn show and tell.
I've always known that behind every magnetic field sits a hamster.
And that the Milky Way wouldn't exist in its current form if not for this fact.
And that the Victorian-era dildo splits into its myriad components
via pulling a lever with your tongue – a form of deconstruction clowns are
particularly good at making terrifying.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012


Can't figure out what to do with
this dead animal. No stove big enough
remains above sea level.

The wise elephant tends to want to
power nap – next to its head
the reading lamp breaks all sorts of patterns.
It starts off looking like hundreds of fingers eating
out of the same take-away box, to grain rippling
from the impact of a split atom.

To a split atom
that merely runs on air.

Oh … to a polygraph's icky overflow
after reaching a sweet spot in
the green fetal homunculus
in the midst of convulsive inspiration...

syndrome, stuck on flashing. What a
sad waste of photosynthetic dew-snot
by the carnivorous.

Usually charmed by anything resembling
CPR with tweezers on a gazelle's lymph nodes
or on a groin tumor – their superstitions rubberized,
a quick bollard alignment on their reverse flight –
lions have nevertheless continued to stare at your tusks.

When living in the former USSR,
just how many apocalyptic tonsillectomies
did you perform?

Monday, January 9, 2012


This is a scrapyard.

Where the scavenger had picked up a pacemaker.
A mole was growing on his chest above the
location of the pacemaker. It had once been so comfortable.

It was my boner in the clouds.

He'll only be able to reverse this amputation with magic or
with a cunt. Occasionally, you'll see the faith healer who'd told him this
on his pedal-cluster – like he's driving a complicated vehicle when he's
healing you. Although now he's more into golf.

Fucking with you as if by magic.

On dope, the scavenger is mystified by the beam – a concept, not an
hallucination – parked on the scrapyard's sociably organized lawn furniture.
[Although] being on dope equals my operating system filling up with leaves.
The Ghostbusters had once passed through here to do battle with
flesh-eating medical equipment, and Hoovered the beam up. The
Disney trail now presents as a black streak. 
Now it's getting a little annoying.

Some rats, an elusive theorem that evolved out of a shitheap of nuclear
waste made them into nicer vermin. Wild chirpy emoticons,
so distinct from the rest of the junk, the least labile and the least
possible to shoot in the junkyard, wearing cute, bulletproof makeup,
and chased after by a golf club-wielding sham healer, on and off exist
on this timeline.

The leak, neon green and possibly hazardous, looks stupid where it is.
It is where the mole has been. The faith healer works his bunch of pedals. 

In a helmet of talcum, you cannot beat a germ unconscious.
In a splash of talcum, you cannot recognize a rash.

Sunday, January 8, 2012


Weeping can have this suitcase.
The PEZ accident that is the world's
collective weeping. Wild, random side alleys explored
in tragic wake of memory's implosion. Can
have this suitcase. 
Temperature ensues from the
tip of the synapse – follows the nose bleed's
slight incline.

Cry with a dismembered foot in front of your face.
Grunt. Click. Immune response of weak tea, trying
physically to get its sandpaper on, figuratively spills hot hives
over foot. Telepathy with loved one is now so candid -
grunt, click, gugg – the air chafes, grenades into thrumming wax.
Also, you've pissed yourself.

In natty hospital gown,
plainly thyroiding into Steve Buscemi – hybrid sexy.
From puddle of staples to spider dampening.
Going in for the kill. 
When the Tardis eventually stopped working,
interstices between you and the other side fell into decay.
The Velcro was … “episodic in nature.”

Didn't, however, thwart the beautiful perseverance of the rainbow
that vivisected the small bubble rising and falling in
the Walking Dead's mouth-breathing.

Saturday, January 7, 2012


Telex six-shooter. My information a shower curtain rolled up
in one silicone chip. But I'm just not getting through. I'm an amputee squirrel
wanking with its phantom hand. 
A patina of stomach acids and Froot Loops, growling in a dish.
The dryer applying a natural density to the wig.
The microwave applying a natural sparkle to asbestos.

This time the slumlord can feel it really sinking in.
Quicksand up your house, brother.
And drive so slow, weeds blind the cops behind.

Vicodin uplifting his spirits, like taking the plant off to clean his bellybutton.

Friday, January 6, 2012


it brought back unpleasant memories when my ant farm organized its own high school football team
and built a hot air balloon to honor its new deity
to whom they sacrificed a shrimp
and pulled the arms out of the sockets of the shrimp, during the sacrifice
they are sometimes invisible to me – but
I sometimes hear a pathological ring tone emanating from their mounds, like someone's cell phone's left ringing
the continuous, in out in out in out – and
I wish for my dishwasher to divert its pipe to one of their entrances instead of having to be switched off at all – same counts for all my apartment's other taps
their deity is a skeleton astronaut that drifts perpendicular to our universe
to give you context, this guy sees in terms of 'spectra,' and every 'spectrum' is fringed with lost drifting gingerbread – and to this 'god' it would be 'pleasant' to 'eat' the gingerbread
they built a cyclotron and I don't know they must've screwed something up because in parts it froths
of course they lick it

in an abandoned amusement park (it must've come out of the ground, the same as a small dirty mannequin that one day came tottering in stops and starts out of the ground, pushed from below) ant robbers were attempting to rob a stationary strain overgrown with weeds
by the time I got to know the colony, this performance seemed prosaic to me
a cloak of invisibility was once again draped over that area of the ant farm

I think of mass absorption when I look down into my ant farm
I think of oxidized metals, gall lying in a pit
I think: my dog does fit in there...

what was really terrifying, was when I dreamed I had taken up
killing them off one by one by shooting them with a rubber band,
and in the dream as the rubber band stretched from the
tip of my finger, suddenly I could see the molecular structure of
the rubber band, and somehow that caused me to wake up
with a start, sweating, panting
would be wonderful to be a little ant and go up in a hot air balloon
instead when I see theirs, constructed in honor of their deity,
horned pottery comes to mind


By day a ghoul, by night also a ghoul but admitting with a sense of
defeat that it's time for bed. Making an honest living
even though it's hard to realize, just before falling asleep, that
his profession is just another form of burrowing and digging
for significance. In rhinoplasty, before you get to the meaty bits –
consciousness, a tie-dyed sun – there's just cartilage and bone.
The organic undersmell of the rubber yoga mat that stores its subterranean
alien code. Meditating (and yogaeing) on this surface is nice,
but at a certain point one pukes. Really pukes – what looks like something
grown in a lab.

The ghoul had once thrown up an antique urn and placed it on
the mantlepiece and still mourns its contents, whatever that may be.
The urn is also a spaceship, and after many years parked on
the mantlepiece slobbered dirgefully over it has, not surprisingly, taken off.
Its transcendental edges inside digging into the backs of its pilot's legs.
You're going pretty fucking fast when things begin stalling around you.
Zen sick – bits of pizza dismantled by a beer.

Sliding in under the curtain or hiding as 3D constructed flakes.
Concealed in a sloth's social behavior. The spring-loaded stripper
behind the curtain offers only her toes as a clue – but then the
chimera scrunches unloading millions of years of stored recoil;
the small new frisky satellite the ghoul had also dug out
of someone's face and placed in a showcase plows through
the dandruff explosion. Flipper heat in its wake.

In one episode of Star Trek, late one night when he couldn't sleep,
the ghoulish surgeon had seen Spock leaving it up to jive-ass emoticons
in his emails to articulate his heady emotions. And that might have been a
valuable lesson! The resonant blat of good viscera isn't produced by
aiming cat food at a harp. In control of one's own actions.
(Don't dodge their consequences too late. And one day suddenly just
falling off the wall and jerking entertainingly on the floor.)

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