Soothing crop circles, tucked in. Gems on Craigslist, fingered by a dick. Door latches melted by a meowed curse. Ethereal yellow rock, a product of jerking off. The ounce of brown sharknado metastasizing in a wood chipper. Buzzing human remains murking the coroner's piano key teeth. Cum on the convenience store floor mapped in valencies of protruding stegosaurus bellybutton. A sandwich breaks apart as shiny suckers emblazon smiles into it. Shitfaced suicide teleports dirt. Haunted haystacks slough watercolors.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Since it can't be stapled down, Donald Draper throws trojan starterghost – aka afterbirth – afoul of the unphysical doll. Menstruation retards beauty in crude home videos. We're sharing everything nailed – composite retro prosthetics, petrified fu manchu, greasy finger marks. Taking a shit at work half asleep restricts movement of the ass-face's evergreen lead head, as if the end of the stepladder Draper falls off of, numbed raking windows, in the nightmare intro, casually and eerily suddenly only halfway puckers, but further jet-propelling dream-sequences ... An exotic dildo impersonates a stiff mechanism of some sort, which doesn't have a face. Mothman shrink-wraps moth dust then romances it, moth dandruff, farming the shit until it short-circuits. Dust most easily falling off of halloween plants, in confusing reflections, and off of anything else I, Betty Bumfuck, can humanly think of. The Mogwai has to be moved around a lot before slotting in, but Wilhelm-screams like a girl, which is hot? I suppose? Teases him (and me?) like double-sided adhesive tape, vacant waffle, bulb cramp, diarrhea puddles in teethmarks, a toxin.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Unearthed skin and the lurching e-cigarette. A green black hole levitating text. Lovecraftian cum on the wedding trowel. Karate aliens enema-ing to eternal bliss. Action figures and the alchemy of eBook McNuggets; cosplay muffled, warts and all-you-can-eat. Ejaculating Coke on an umbrella from smiling, two-faced test tubes, causing cataracts of math. Forklifting an ancient civilization. Unseemly clawing. Brain-dead rabbit. Hat full of Satanic zoo. Piss axis stop-motion brooming, and the ensuing muffin-prism. Bricks of purple, nightmare smoke; real meat. Stem-cell nymph, to scale. Satyr-chugs, without arms.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
An image of Betty White and her stygian posse
momentarily nullifies Hell. Badbreath
cowlicks rugburn on wigs. A centipede
creeps gurgling into catnip, spine-paddles
ruffled, gouging an iron lung. I crank in
my sleep. Toasters erratically goop in my
crank-dreams. Motherfucking antennas
against a misty background etc. In this world,
placid antics act as social buffers.
Stephen Hawking talks like the devil.
Dry-humping drainpipes invokes
the body of a feather, which fills
a tub with occult equations. After a major judder,
there's goblin shit everywhere. The asphalt
gets psychedelic cancer, a behavioral costume
made in the act of consuming one's twin
in the womb; of stimulating spidersin a van; massaging vase water.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Quantum mechanics unknot a cop's weird innermost jaw. A razor floats in the tank's fuckable cranial chocolate. “I look like a violent model,” the cop says. “Crusher of criminality. Curator of unspeakable, breathing material.” The evolution of random leaks in the tank's event horizon into dark underground clouds, farty pornographic headaches impregnated by dead things. Like a clubbed mother asteroid, a baby seal plays dead in traffic's organic wave-forms. Decrepit shelves fall away in Minecraft as spoons cluster-kiss the grave's double slit. On the holodeck, a human taste rips through lifelike sculptures; i.e. from a ruptured diva exits an orange, negative Bartman with smug tits and patchy beard; i.e. Riker's cartoon muscles spit black blood into this sweetened UFO, himself. And OkCupid nudges another pushpin into Frankenstein's monster, even though he's jacking off to Flickr.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
In the Leviathan's library, dreamt up from sentient syllables, a bioluminescent Angel of Death underpins our solar system's arcade queef. Underpins our planet's faucet-buzz. The curiosity of freely associating with lasers in the bathroom mirror's lunar sac. Of mnemonic balls' typhoid-neuron hinging on a curious green screen. Operatic horror-stick chooses its own adventure through MRI vagina's pop-up omnipresence. Bothers infinity. Projectile vomits on a bus. Caught in anomalous slime-crimes. The ghost's exoskeleton passing a giant bird's cock-hole on primordial skis.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Sock shooting by William Tell.
The sock's chin as visual aid.
Hoarding ugly bones.
A gun poking a sock.
A yesterday-worn woolen sock.
A creaking, leathery,
sock. Steampunk towel.
A tarantula-legged Hilter-headed sock puppet.
Sometimes the sock's forehead.
Sometimes above the sock's forehead.
FAP FAP FAP FAP
Sock aura screengrabbed
in a gnawed-off curdle.
Sock-faced, sexysauce trickletool.
Almost impossible to miss
at this range/angle. A sock
crushed by an empty wolf.
Leveraging the sock's ass to –AAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!!
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Ink cut and ruminated into circus fossils
by Pedoplant's animatronic O face.
The shopping trolley of the meta-apocalypse
stuffed with numbers ballooning on top of numbers
in the style of El Chupacabra tased
beneath the UFO-scape's streetlights.
Jerk-radio Freud-frogs wavy as an
erection on its commute to the
Taco Bell urinal's strange eyeball romantically
unfrozen in a marijuana blaze.
Well, snakes have hatched on the online
disease-sea's swelling periodic table on
which a corkscrew-cocked raccoon stands
laughing like a screaming stapler. Twee
doom-doodle; your cancer's migration dependent
on mawkish gravity. A wax piano beatenwith chains of endless data simulation.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Care for some of the primitive crap funky cartilage blurbs. Play Scrabble with the macabre cells. Self-cannibalized in a VCR suit's holiday spines. Bogus elephant rays sexually potato up, like a meltdown of one's Sunday oral cast, masking a clock of transmitted-cockroach. Bigfoot skateboards down the egg stair. Walleyed squirt of the Ark's diabetes-heating. Hitler diapers Dracula's thigh gap; open penis ghost-scrounged. Master sediment goatse. Bag-infusion exposing many a rotten tricorder. Software that fears the pizza's echolocation, which is fantastic. Peach glossy eye-poop, buttons uneasy ego stable again. Of the cunt sculpture's awful pole down the mass chemical. Distortion of mood-entanglement forks for miles. Preserves the pale impaled sweater. Boring, affected as reenactments of the church surgeon's butchering of artificial intelligence, in trans-opiate suicide unemotionally party.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
ET's badly jerking haircut.
100% defenestrated cornflakes.
Glowdick's passive-aggressively broken fingernail.
Mall-murder's blade-interior's claw-feel.
Hunts in a tantric onesie:
Big slick runs hearse-like.
Down his buttock's solitary.
Turning armpit in fragments.
Of what's rejected when –
Ass-cold Axe-cloud auto-
mainlined really invisible.
[In fragments] only by mounting quicksand –
Deodorized lizarddick sleeping.
On weird structural supports:
A Target is where the moonlanding once was.
For there's slapstick, much.
In cattle-corpse nostril mooning mooncrater,
Atomizing on the lizard part's plywood facade,
Caped grapes. Crepe grudges.
Erected in the image of the mythical cheerleader.
Then switching them off.With heavy shoes clutching at straws.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Satan appears dead, conquers by slurping. Parks, spins
warmer earthquake-tailed. A clicking blend of gears'
regurgitated fog upsets stomach's gaping symmetry.
Loosens mummified ear, dismembers horn.
The fool's tools produce a sound.
Social media Quidditch bitch. Gratuitous rhyme
baking in the aftermath.
You, Blockbuster, sound like an insomniac's creepy peanuts calibrating –
a soul underlies the kinked tubes of the scarecrow in the trunk,
a thistle of levitating pimp. The devil may either sneakily loosen the small
shirt buttons of the maggot, or straight up SuperSoaker the world's
tarantula-mask as it cranks out gold kidney stones while cranking.
Radical binge time traveler with false knife.
On whose big cock perches the quantum samurai
of the black-and-white orgies, computer arteriesundermining the island unevenly, no homo.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Her question to the 1c mystic seer
had disturbed a footlong in cryo sleep, Subway-grim;
inflatable thrasher, distant spanner.
Salt in the wounds of a prawn.
Yes, the Y chromosome is a jar full of vintage cunt-fear.
As a rustic amoeba, breaching the city limits hurt;
from within a makeshift black lagoon
its stalk thus pushed away the room's white lighting.
Its hybrid beef jerky spirit animal thus pushed through
the urban witch's scissors headlessly, smearing rabies as
quickly as it could; turbo-fiddly. Grilled to heavier powder in
preparation for heavier hoovering.
preparation for heavier hoovering.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
My dentist unleashes the mammoth snowflake ooh.
A hot metallic smell of distilled blackout and demisted cube.
We chat about Miami Vice since we both long for shows that
can dislodge the appalling milkshake from any tomb,
a longing which, despite the many fingers in my mouth,
causes me, but also him, to impulsively sigh. Impulsive wind.
“May I tell you about my alter ego's unclean diaper's wallet chain?”
This catches him a little off guard. Quickly, to reenforce the boast:
“And about the impending glitter I tend to hallucinate whenever I
spank said unclean diaper?” He loses concentration, trails off with
gruesome, but pretty loose, comparisons between my alter-ego and
burglar-furries taser-spliced thick-lined into a heartbreaking matrix of
Dalek belly lint normalized in one blanketing pile of leatherface Bible screensavers –
an example of which (i.e. an example of such a furry) he offers to show me,
on his phone. Including some holiday pics introducing me to a Danish
“dragon-butcher's” horse-drawn shorts derping dream-addled in time-lapse
on his (i.e. on my dentist's) last vacation there (in Denmark), “ahhh.”
I become impatient, a little bit grossed out. He goes: “Ahhh, annoying
gum-herpes are such a major wank-deterrent.” And, darkly, invoking a random
metaphor, “I've seen many a proverbial orthodontic cum-extractor fall off the
proverbial retractable locust.”
I am close to tears, saying, “I am unable to see toothpaste in the dark.”
I'm trying to keep face but admit to finding, like a fucking tourist,
suicide hotlines so enthralling. My dentist can't stop boasting:
“I hold the Guinness World Record for having the most bumholes.”“Like any tourist,” I mumble.