Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Pus Lad

Shame is a feather. The radar of it squirts fuses
with a hedge that thrashes beneath the skin pulled off
Jar Jar Binks by the war parents – a marionette’s
dead leg in the mouth of a holy cow biting down
with a guffaw’s kick-ass suction. Anyway, the splurge
would have Maureen eclipse scarier lad pus.
A lens turns to stone pitted by the crap clown
like a mole screaming in chimerical gravity,
bisecting the crawlspace of its swinging rainbow’s
black immersive dust’s subtler Meaning
for the Complaints to pour out like sand. Meaning
only Homer’s amorous chromosomes wheel
hypnotically to her now.
So a cop castrates himself. I’m performing
vulture metaphysics on a stuck ratchet, heh. Curses.
Oh, into what had the wizard slid? Sighs.
I like it here. I bought truth in experimental tungsten, hehe.
Nauseatingly, it has self-deleted itself. Looks around.
Thriving, I couldn’t remember forging the weight of
all this piss in the lampshade...

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