Thursday, February 4, 2016

The stick figure caught fire in the bush, in a slim gigawatts
ensemble like a mass shooting. Virus fabrication snowballs
into a leaf ripe for the slashings. For inspiration, I won't have
sex. Black dog re-assembling Bitcoin inkjet soda dream.
A spud spacing out like an albatross breaks my heart,
whose pistol holes snatch a sniff of Winona Ryder off its precipice.
I've put frogs in my time machine and given them energy
drinks to facilitate the spreading of a mutual electronic
spine to fish Wingdings in radio static cheeseburger
with a flashlight. Sexually-transmitted oxygen leads to heart
attacks in the creepy prostate with an elusive blue. You're
batshit biological, the sex is snuggly and the war is flat,
still I'm addicted to her male gaze with a n00b's rush.
Thus Satan, pointing an antique sword's irrigation at the
funeral pyre, enslaved the sisters with a spider's strong blood.
The astronaut catches fire in time and space. Power is sound,
the anime in the oil of a transparent heart, the sentient AI that
sucks out venom form the island in atmospheric warrens
of death mask swapped with giant weed bros. I can't breathe.
So I abuse my authority. Meditate on a black hole's shameful
transmission. With exoskeleton as practical joke, Devo automatically
downloads scarlet particles through lust. Brutalized by sleazy test-tube
Mountain Dew, physical smoke swatting cold-blooded.
Thus Satan's son prefaces his slumbering wolf with a balloon's
clock of sorrow.

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