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.