Friday, January 27, 2012

MURDER SWEAT PANTS

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.

1 comment:

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