Saturday, December 7, 2013

The Fucked-Up Butler

The arcade's furniture's on fire so everybody at
the cyber town meeting jostles for position on
the water slide cum suicide urinal. A mire of
boneheads surveyed by the clam in one eyeroll as
the Edwardian sex toy trudges water to the accompaniment of
a church bell stretching. The contraceptives he
hoarded on the space station were interchangeable
with kittens. At the touch of a button, they merged
with everybody's lymphatic tissue, ironically. Everybody calmed down.
With its crippling charm, vomit scours my muumuu,
like a great fog thrown into my innards, sleeping in
olfactory buckets-full of Walmart. Forbidding human
contact to help make karaoke holy. To the accompaniment of a time machine
idly oozing its slideshows. The dance fulfils its function as an effective cuntblock.
Luckily, my anthropomorphism is adjustable. One only tinges lettuce with abject golf.
Finding the remains of a religion at the bottom of the toaster fucks up the butler. Then it
fucks up the toaster. Toilet paper fucks elevators up. 

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