Friday, November 28, 2014

Failson Autism

magnetic duct MMORPG undisguised dick echo
from unconscious supercomputer to Japan,
the queer blood Barbie colossus slick
spider paste peg streaming the monstrosity
with cephalic punch interface of sticky GPS, grainy dreams
now long overgrown dream-addled disturbed in
cop loneliness spews the blood, a dinosaur-pile feeling
from within a child's balls, crying the blood terminals
panda afterbirth in lawnmower static electricity
latch fussball hacked toilet dying on my bicycle...
I chug helicopter beefcake laughing subterranean acoustic
whip inverted, as you unite the demon copy ribbed laser sensitivity
dark jerking insanity of hipster missing narcissist
swells Pokémon pope tampon, zombie Bic spoon dusk
streams such pharmacopeias as road cone moon bling impact-werewolf
manslaughter obliquely, the clickhole bevy Linux breaks tits
tumblers shroud the best, acetylene drones like hell, Tokyo's bloodstain
gravity tush flower aesthetic and she kisses gangster stool in our mindblowing
dick's throat and I bloom dreadful, a nightmare fashioned
after earth-toned windex and the shame flexes the goat steel gamut

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Boogie Nights – Another Mutation

An internal object holds him down. It doesn't know what he is. As its orbital mystery, its tight lid, Krang knows what it is. The proclivity for gruesome overreach of its petrol cadence – a gray area poses as a portal, transforms into a bubble. A literal fume, worst anchor. He thinks, “I'm going to kill myself,” then hears voices behind him – Ernie, no, you can't, not here – and the very statement seems to cross a threshold. Solar blood. I am Krang, motherfucker. Figuratively, the goat in the display cabinet is inanimate, therefore embodies the Gospel; social nebulae filling its autism with bells – sensors discerning textures with a bacterial fisheye – it plays the lead role in Boogie Nights. “John Travolta” finally fucks a girl. Necrophilia, finally. Fever-ink traces mirror-ball architecture. Pigeons shit like chicken. A pox pops up, little non-biodegradable prisms ejecting the venom of the pivotal lump's void. I shit on my own shit. A fluorescent graph finds its tabloid tone, finally, like a tongue curtailing heavy piss. “[For which] I am going to Hell,” she tells [Ernie]. End of (a bad) movie. 

Monday, November 17, 2014

Loud Dildo

A doorbell resonates through tunnels like the slain flavor of malaise in comet camouflage. Oscillation laid pillow nodes cracked beneath the emoji of male birth control – that a chemical Columbine has a friend in the electrical bear breaks the internet. To make the physical wind's hate-finger FAQ discord on an open field with its dick, choose your own adventure right in the flux opera cookie cleavage station if you're a lady; the anus if you're a gentleman. Lest tinnitus GWAR audiences full of Microsoft, a future gameshow robo-enigma must mangle the dildo's skeleton and the dildo's repellent defense-skin. 

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Nude Dads

a pointless! head
do you ever? delete tweets
the! child is so fucking small

you can't even put a small toy on
its head

hocus (pocus)

amounts to cooking
a chainsaw –
to razing a car,

a rash

or to having once stood
in stubble

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Fuck Yeah Mom

the fuck video game
Oreo of Tarantino
white, male, alien leaked threads, self-aware,
extending hatred

I am the
last homophobe

the Cookie Monster mass shooting
started to disappoint the hippie:

I stick the ghostly mess post-apocalyptic in a calcified host
fruition circling the cookie console describes a narcissistic suicide

the brunt of an Euclidean vibe averts Muslim social media
like a rejection-python, high jinks-shrouded –
former pieces formed pierce

ahhh rummage bald;
in beta YOLO
a bladder fizzles
steam stems from panic

foaming at the
girl grave

an Ikea-dimension
inspired the tableaux-cut:
the pillow fart of passing Kool-Aid
disappeared through a jar as

if face-flossed at a D&D swimming lesson
the dead man paring karate with paralysis,
fuck yeah mom, Helter Skelter,

Friday, November 7, 2014

Symptoms of Death

Paper is evergreen, with candleneck stuck up the theoretic lightbulb.
A Japanese sprite’s fear of shopping awakens a bias for cuddly stuff.
For where he pees, the woods bury Andrew. Insects KKK HIV.
At a party, clean puke’s 80’s inertia;
dirty death in the face of a sleeping bag’s port.
A gorier mom would’ve cleaved your dad’s diseased beer-projector.
Satan swings buckets of waterlogged sexts, in Minecraft,
weeping – on the very spot where a corpse sucks the mortician’s dick
smiling tiny fast smiles because
apart from the obvious splashback
symptoms of death include the turbo-smile
in miniature, psychosomatic red balls
and a violently ripped off breast –
bummed out snakes splattering around in glacier fluids
as green ground-shift eats itself. 
Anxiety in a continuation of robots blending among ghosts.
Radio to the point of overkill.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

disco ball entropy’s core gravy particles bled like a Steve Buscemi mask from concrete’s magma-face, it’s porn season in the fat modular city, the killer song’s junk cubes are fuzzin’, clocks inside tulips get completely grayed-out with electromagnetic gum, babies’ grim ass murals get ripped off on YouTube by low life lizards, in hacker coveralls the archeological raccoon is hanging out with friends in the Walmart shade under the influence of a drug, tending to tulips that are permanently in the throes of becoming their own pimps, Santa with full moon balls laughs haiku-wet, app-abuse, a clamp for life for a bad family and its gimmick cat

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