Monday, September 21, 2015

The Monk Trapped In The Wall

Dark horse analog as the imagination flicking witch hairs. Golden feelings taken away by an email vibe - shy Hell core and South Park stomach parting ways. The black zero of reality, like a virus immune to Christmas chemicals, traps all hope; fish sewn together by the dead arms of vultures walk; breakfast evaporates from a beheaded pet. Your corpse shapes the dent in municipal wall sadness: "bitch, my best buddy was a monk - spongebob wool surrounding raven's jaws worried grisly by vanilla spinster, he listened to the silent shootings. Eyelid spooned, floating over a breast on a bladder's leash."

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