The constellation seems to cling. Mouse embryos
stab each other in their Martian jelly sac,
superimposing pee stains over their mother's moon's
hip, a comparatively small space to get clean.
The sprinkling wastes itself. With odd new body posts
imitating her original form, Snookie will come back
to haunt us. A prefrontal blob gyrating in a spoon
so that you cannot possibly shut off your mind.
The mutant is just my mess. A sombrero refused
in the crypt's shifting. Two things could've happened
to the surviving mouse: it could've set itself on fire in its
earth-return. The killer robot's Heimlich maneuver could've
uncoiled it. It could've simply fizzled out on
the killer robot's hand towel. Little bastard, you
could've given us all a very exciting performance!
A surge of blimp beneath the leaves. When not overrun
rich with snorkeling, nudity is omission.
A large, large, pleasing, pleasing capsule.