Saturday, May 5, 2012

YOU SHIT FREAKY SHIT


I've always been unhappy about my gym wig promoting
the vague psychiatric meatball underneath.
But my thoughts are willing to assemble an asylum from ozone nails;
I am grateful to the mutant wheelchairs, for the general
setting up of a peaceful, delightful alternate reality in which the
synapses of a gorilla may forfeit their hideous bed-smell.

A boxing glove on a spring haunts on a whim. More importantly,
it attaches to everything. It can be traced back to a larger
diversity of fish green chaos. Pee-colored mattresses ensuing
from abrupt, violent delays in the metropolis, seamless odd-shaped
blood splatter swirling weirdly in graves. When the superhero
insect-fucks the thug, the latter accepts that the former is not
removable – siphoning mauve cancer from ubiquitous pores.

You shit freaky shit while munching on the finger of doom.
You shit freaky shit while staring into the hypno-shower curtain.

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