Sunday, November 26, 2017

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man - Another Mutation

Portrait of the BUTCHER as a Young Man should of been called Enamel on Strings from the Bowels of What I think about under the Willow Tree cc: 
weary, shallow christian-science doomsday cup-wielding, probably integrating - 
no matter what consciousness wrinkles into - a gravitationally plucked-closer 
badass brain... back where its bioconcrete vomits a slinky. 
In the smile today, slime molds thrive where mouth's corners converge.
Yoshi's sin (if you insist!): egregious Amazon review. Learning words 
by the erratic end of Pink Floyd. Running for president on spam – Level: Easy. 
The legacy of cow torturer looking at bathroom teat, tiny – psychologically (“get off eggs” timelessly incontinent), curio cabinet erased white guy meditating – 
and by his disingenuous suggestion, anti-depressants irk, the silent spiraling, 
vulnerable “even pixels are fake” rocket ship often depicted as a cocktail, matryoshkaesque, inwards into colossal fried static –  I leisurely stab at hearts, 
change moods, fuck with time, glibly refer to a non-existent Congestion... 
I'm fed up with objectivity: all girls have five fingers. 
In the maelstrom, everything's the same as in the big ol' house.... 
the longest-lived Russian taxonomy: a bag offered to angry passenger – orrrr a dispelled moon, like a dropped bulldog placenta – without grief robot proteins up/ and down 
the bass: the number of times /0/ I try to oil the upside-down 
cross, change would still fall out of my pockets.  

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