Tuesday, February 11, 2014

The NSA's Dong

Awkward tears sneezed through a small slug grommet, hell yeah.
A stretchable pacemaker erupting into gross robotics, soft horror.
I'm where surplus heads dock the egg of amputee-pliable heroin.
Drugs are bad for you. So here, huddled cryptids scrape a deceased loved one's
feces into bundled smileys, fattening the NSA's dong on sonic ribbons, 
insinuations, faces, Sonic the Hedgehog, a gobbled-up dinosaur infographic's 
subplot: i.e. “Gandhi is global-warming lethal Coke into a brake fluid screensaver
a-la happy winking selfie!” Or: “My bike's dimming, yuh, yelling, thirsty.”
“Coal's origami nipple disturbed by our fucked up cheap little magnet
and the vagrant asymmetrical shart of its noise-figure.” “Alright sorry, bye.”

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