Tuesday, December 4, 2012


Every moment in time is time spent in the loo, in an arc of exhaust fumes, healing milk and sea-partings.
From time to time, we all lose our odor.

To have the odor of a crowd is to be very complete. Romulan proverb.
But all my friends have lost their odor, to an aether buzzing with sea-partings.
I had unclogged a bomb with healing milk.

Aided in this vice by a mechanical hip, Moses was addicted to bowling.
Closet aether runs through the Porous Maid, softly, like drying glue.
At every second of every day, one kitten prunes.

And the air inside one closet turns stale with exhaust fumes running spongy against claustrophobia or a proximate nervous breakdown.
The muppet's bioluminescent deathshead divined from bath salts, the old man's walker freighted with 6th dimensional ore.

The hobo's arcing body odor, hung with personalized soak.
It is easier to catch diarrhea with gardening shears than to be likable. No wonder everybody is recapturing their bog; nobody knows how to like.

To be incomplete is to be very Moses. Density opens a drawer full of sea partings, a bra full of numbers, an old man's rectum full of birds.
Photoshopped from every direction like a sugar cube browning between Satan's thumb and forefinger, making air run off its tectonic plates in accidental numbers. But that's bowling for you.
The hive's buzzing is accidentally sexy, forging a little figurine of dried bog in cell phone language through lapses in Starbucks aether.

The hive's buzzing revealed in mechanical failure, i.e. a random smut of robotic spouting and untrammeled crook. That which accidentally glues the legs of spiders to tropical density is a tool.
The muppet loses its fittings in dissociative aether, in a harvesting of plank and a lunging of mannequin carcass. The mustache of an exploding head must try to keep its poise; in the mirror, the wavelength of Alfred E Neuman's exploding head had been assigned a fun-sized curl.

Although it aims ballistic contraceptives from a costume of simulated tropical gulch, the hobo's density can be raped.
This way you can measure the perfume of his density in numbers – if you're made of black sugar and weeping from a necrophiliac sock.

The beekeeper's mind forged a buzzing of accidental numbers that were accidentally sexy. She opened a drawer full of lapsed points in cereal aether discovered by eyes made of snaking milk.
During the ceremony, each participant sat next to the next participant at the adjoining table, in Starbucks.

Out of my way, Moses.
I need to use the loo.

The hobo's density has discovered purgatory's environmentally-friendly puddle.
As a seamless shadow of chins, his blood is invincible.
Satan has dropped the whole cockroach's eye into a joke mug.
Harvesting the graveyard's sea-parting of dried tectonic spidersnot with a single mustache.
In the mirror, the firefly practices her bioluminescent polyp.
In the mirror is a lifeless tectonic plate beneath the reflection of an areola.
A light object. “I'm now standing on an environmentally-friendly concrete curb.”
The mirror memorizes the reflection in its fibers. That's the firefly's ceremony. A sprinkling of nothing.

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