Monday, April 14, 2014

Not For All The Tea On Mars

The apparatus wields data in a font made of shit.
The cropped blood vessels of a puppy thug online.
The mindscape's poked bladders are full as fuck.
The meteor gets thrown into the wastebasket from a dirty bike.
The Satanic medium's elevator cartilage is also media.
The drug riffles loneliness into realism.
The helicopter God swallowed twitched like a dead tumor perched with bemusement among the other falsehoods in transit, prank dark matter disembodied from the pornographic animation beamed by an electronic cigarette in Crop Circle plastics instead of smoke rings swelling into the strychnine bonnet of a Rocky Horror Picture Show scream-ensemble above humanoid livestock grazing on all the tea of Mars like Google's air-anatomy perched routinely and flu-like atop the horizontal mental sculpture of a dolphin therapeutically tattooed by Hitler into an illusion of nightmare intercourse acting as Waster of Correlations and murderer of the spirit of beer and pussy.

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