Oblivion used to be sexy all over –
gathered near an affectionate but elusive pore.
Feeding it splits it, the spewing metal lampshade of Pinhead's constipation.
In a metallic confluence of Gulag desiderata,
aorta-yolk returns home –
a prodigal curiosity.
While Stockholm syndrome forges a sock
through which his dickcheese bores,
Hitler's growing amusement is inappropriate;
it has suddenly mushroomed, like a werewolf,
a sebaceous human centipede
that, the bigger it gets, disappears into the crowd.
Literal moth leak here and there sticks dandruff-style
to the blades of a figurative lawnmower, which is attractive to it,
which is a flapping, spring-loaded cluster of literal and figurative
Things slowly and deliberately scrape the pinata. What the unfathomable membranebroadcasts alternates between lumpy bumping carts and omniscient schoolgirl.