Monday, January 16, 2012

AUTOMATED O-FACE

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.

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