Monday, February 27, 2012

THE MYSTERIOUS CASE OF THE PLUGGED-IN PHONE, IN THE NIGHT TIME

Chunks of hip foam on a bloody runway. In collaboration
with Hugo Boss, Hitler's Friday night vasectomy.
Sleep deprivation over the sex line: the helical phone
piously kinks the hollow illuminant. Vocal patterns
spoon. Tokyo, a little gaudy hospice on the curb of
Pluto. Thunder slug thunders, sticks inside the lamp shade.
The lavatory's gland. Thought-reading interspersed
throughout jell. A culling of so much logic, it no longer
fits. As stupid as laundered latex. Pondering the phone's
thread's inception. In the wall is a magnet, so powerful it sizzles.

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