Saturday, December 1, 2012


The noose has crashed in 3-stage clot.
The negative collects in a headstink of mindfulness. Skeletal and tinny, television breaths reassemble in a valve's sexy gargle.

A difficult vegetable is usually segregated from fun. Such a vegetable is usually a clamshell. He or she quietly suffers some kind of outbreak – layers of Velociraptor wart descend the emphysemic silence.

An outbreak of pomegranate. The body of Christ in an alternate universe riddled yellow-toothed, a coin-operated doodle. Lactation ejecting the mole through an orbital scissoring. Neuroscience’s hazy burgling of faulty borders at the angle of an alien's toe.

As we all know, stuffed gum resurrects from gum.
A bouquet of gum resurrects from gum. Layers interacting in a stuffed resurrected bouquet of gum in brain-damage time-lapse.
Something missing fills up with noise, from such an exhaustively harvested resurrection.

I'm longing for the more casual and relaxed circuitry of the perpetual nuke, haunted upload twisting with brain-fat and low-hanging Knorr – whose ribs I will sort of climb into bed with.
We lean casually against the bubbling stove.

The suckers of an amnesiac hinge on a difficult vegetable, determining the amount and variety of her past and future.
A grave's ejaculations create the same ambiance as my Camry’s backward puffs. Their screams' toxicity producing an echo of positrons.

Like a bevy of corrupt cops, a bevy of corrupt thumbscrews tore down Bubble Boy’s lobe. He is now an otherworldly tripod which eats and farts atrophy.
Like a werewolf, the heel of an amputee leaps from the rabbit hole.

The hug of an emphesymic house spider triggers diffusion. Such zero connectivity is not segregated from fun.
A cyst receives revelations in 3 stages of clot. Disguised with laser. Brain-fusing between disaffecting tensions.
Having learned that nothing is tactile to Occam’s razor, alien invaders masturbate a diabetic’s lunch.

You don't want to be an unintelligible object. You don't want to be an unintelligible object positioned somewhere in the room while Sauron is watching the sitcom: his vigorous heartbeats all tend to bang on unintelligible objects.
Behind Audrey II’s lip, there's a warmth. Anatomical vase water ghosts in the craw of sand.
Acid reduced to pellets can't be licked out. They don't work. They can't be soaked in liquor. Can't be stuffed with negative.
This syndrome is stuffed with subjective feelings' meta presence.

I twist into the shape of a humanoid dog.
For a second, my chinos look like a portrait of chinos. Fake leaves blow around our junk's junkyard. Zero connectivity copies its arms from a plant. Xenomorphic snoutskin levels its cold vector at its own reflection in the astronaut's visor from a base of non-biodegradable dickcheese.
In our cunts, two brains shall dodder before the contraction's snoring methane.

With his low-hanging whiskers hovering above an energy drink, the hybrid coroner gives the best golden showers.
A corpse lies prone on the yellow brick road. A ghost commits its spirit to the bosom of the Coca-Cola evening shade, little bits of dirt trapped in its eye shadows' outer wax.

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