Thursday, July 17, 2014


The gorilla's third nipple – rather than its dystopian shedding – is it. That is the answer. And being high. Less the apocalyptic KNOB OF THE NIGHT than ... mince, God is the central tree which willingly touches my dead amphibian buttock. Bumper sticker-grim. Repetitive ping-pong with a chemical smell. Grandma exists beneath the visor's rock 'n roll hand. Desert drug transmission-spheres intimately earwax ... hotrod-elusive. The black lips of Dracula stretch loudly. Hookah the demon core's rhinestones couch potato-tacky, like planetarium glitter caking up nubbin-louche; satisfying the psychoanalytic tipping point on the volcano's ribcage. A juggalo peers from behind its devilish, shallow brain aggregate. The cold blast's naturally obscure plug. Malignant proxy piss – silence that impales cold excrement. 

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