Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Drool's Rules

until my wig returns to life, no wi-fi can identify its shrine from the
dumb but strong Gatorade evinced just now by its sack-style,
obviously, stretched hairless like a perforated bear into a treadmill of
nightmare chicken-pimples, idly; nor guess the moist, transparent steampunk
from its elephant voice, premature, spitting –
the nasal buzzfeed of a tennis ball endeared to angelic legs,
differentiated from its eventual cold formation into runny horseshoes, etc.,
violence distinguished from normal dick-colonization
by Playboy-erased android-hostility's semblance to potleafs falling on
Broadway and to proton streams crossing in accordance
with a meta-version of drool's rule

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