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

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. 

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. 

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

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

ears

ahhh rummage bald;

in beta YOLO

a bladder fizzles

introspectively,

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,

jpeg 

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.

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