Friday, September 6, 2013

brown food

Brown bleeding through a shit sieve foreshadows freckles –
crypto kites the sky god's face swallowed, their visual imprints
flapping weirdly numb. Each a dead flipper scientifically reanimated,
'miraculously' kickin' it in Bill Nye twerk sock. Our block is pretty
dormant with Goonies on Ritalin, i.e. young urban wretches in
sticky juxtaposition with each other. Segas spurt dog eared.
Front lawns so buttery as to be wrapped in light. Picnic bouts
of dinosaur-fleecing, tendrils reaching the four ends of a Happy Meal.
Testicles are oddly cranial, elaborately loitering spider-bodied clusterfucks,
usually. Had pussies not lovelily melted space, they too would've behaved
like dicks. Barnacles merely take to the nearest object, usually. On Instagram,
the curb attaches to an ice-cream; in real life the ice-cream again self-dislocates
and/or saltily self-decapitates. I dislike and/or kick roast origami centaur.
I recycled my cat fetish online into brown tears like huge fucking zeppelins,
as if cats intestinally were flush with baked beans.

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