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.