I confuse twilight and its rolling shadows
with the meaningless, hydraulic cramping of Post-its
curling yellow from age. When all else is dark, I bake bread
in HD. Still, audible within the calipers of the bread's look
of dry lips is a very typical American hysteria.
The strips of public neurons sweaty nasal spray
wiggles its bum crystalline on. Phonetically, the
hysteria's bleeping is difficult to understand.
The clock's absence of compression marks in gum
after using the latter to stop time.
Jean Claude Van Damme has a little scar on his knee,
a small scrape or square, broken off. Axis of a
generic mosaic. My bum is balanced unassisted on his face,
the side profile of which then gives a cut-off impression.
Invisible escalator rooted in punk eczema.
Santa meeting roads without numbers to houses.
All eerily modernized, flats no longer merely waiting,
but flexing. Mini golf played thrashing like a
Swiss Army Knife's temper tantrum. Scientists know
where to look to see this: billions of years ago, two minutes
before the Big Bang's scrap metal casually pooled.
The parabola Ayn Rand's pencil, wedged in bath salts,
died at the completion of.