Saturday, March 29, 2014

My Dog, Killing It

It depends on whom you ask.
Hobbit piss runs hot down my leg.
Wet feet bound in creepy haircuts.
BRB, says the Bible, creepily.
Heat weeping from plastic takeout bags.
The prehensile butthole of time reaching slowly for something out of frame.
In the action movie, pain is data-waste.
Dragon-foreskin betrays a Lego-like attention to detail.
I picture infinity's disco pustules astride my Netflix dirt-throne.
Reality always happens to be estranged from the 3-D printed human.
Cultivated in the tropical dinobladder of suspended animation, like beer.
The periphery of my Xbox hardly ever is calm.
At times, on the cusp of mixtape recoil, I believe “peace” is the go-to laxative.
Heavy undigested elements fall through me and my dog, Doug.
Whichever demonic sonic abstraction is resurrected first.
In the basement.
Kill it.
Before the kinetic flame of the abstraction flings its poop at you.
The bogeyman fears a reality, some reality; any reality.
Dream-addled ashes/sexy pollution; the pervasive Anime in revolution.
A posy of abstract tube-termini, the Baldwins are reactive with DOS.
Ebola, within tolerance, used to be hip.
Google Earth was still but a manhole cover.
Awash with Bigfoot's party-colored cum.
Artificial space between space, on the eve of the infamous gap-mouth.
It was fashionable at the time to comb pizza with a comb.
We severed the old Periodic Table from its constituent organic gaming console.
Like a mutant turtle, I like to put on toad-vision at parties.

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