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:
“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.”