Tuesday, August 1, 2017

His Stygian Living Room

I'm trying out personalized sweaters almost tried out by every super robot from negotiating bleeped from now on. Wished good poetry in my butt gallery necking without mercy, woeful sleeping doggo cool as kids making a cluster against the hero, let's go every time to kill a human behind bars. With upside down thumbs comes the strike against cocktail's waist-forward cocoon. Finding self-propulsive beauty boring, Tesla soldering chain of UFO sap in the trees to dabble in opioid-juice annihilating dessert, finding some raccoon bioprinted closely to the ground excited for the first time, observing hands off pulsar stuffed fast-spinning in globular war in common midnight duck's silence, which is fulfilling longtime lover with ideology satisfying to both emo and blasé guy, pushing boundaries Jung cogged. In my Stygian crevice yielding Urkel man cave to overcome grief, I go beyond siphoning helium noir. I've accelerated more at ease, with forced help. I've breached small scratches on the hellscape. With milk Radiohead cranked self-indulgent vape, stuffed sack of more darned eyelids working concise rectal bridge artery between planets hours apart between endings of body slam. Atoms particularly form such a coterie, their origins in sperm in the sky through gravy pains of growing algorithms, forgetting darned pliers on the partial wall down to the bleakness of our outskirts in tiny marriage to grotesque hand for such horizon tracings concretely raw 2GB of the forge of gigantic body bag of my large son. 

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