Wintry memories, like spiders stuck shiny
in the cold porridge of the mind-software,
infest crucial linkages in the bean-snowflake interface.
Sordid farmer, now every bean is a shitty, downy carcass.
Let's hear your jailhouse-flirt and their garbage-buzz locked
in separate, stilted, unheard monologues. Beans dream.
Yeah, we've all slept with Satan when he was bankrupt or at a low point.
We've seen Mr. Burns' jumpsuit block an entire beach. The spooky unseen
skeleton. New Age underwear. Burger gun.
Orally, in this shooter game, the victims begin to knot, orally, even at a distance.
Imagine a life in which the cryptids bowling team is not invited
to the arctic afterdeath party. Streaks of snake oil trailing across your Maxim.
“Oh lobotomized body builder,” a caption in 38 different typefaces reads,
“stop hovering 26 feet in the air above your Ferrari, glumly.”
Lifehack: stay in the squatting position for 81 hours to
prevent the sun from baking your dump.