I got high on eating pets to

an unhinged evacuation of a

mouth-long rape fantasy, the

detailed tackling of healthiness

through a crime-carrot while

in a relationship with a bird –

you too would feel it coming

in the room trying to oppose

a hooded Bruce Springsteen

when he hugs you, no?

Cleansed of this negro Candyman,

before his death, I fled an obsessive

tightness, spat three times

in the middle of the laundry ...

yet no prophecy lingering, drawn from

expectation of thief in the

night, departed sitting down

to Uranus jarring into hallucination...

Why do aliens queef secrets on the

branch of a solar eclipse, perish on

the beach and pass looks of sensational

peacocks starving to death?

 

A gay angel plays both sides in basketball,

moldy luggage in the head. Windshield wipers

splattering the brown vacuum with cotton swabs,

it doesn't really sound like the swirling of a crab

but like a math teacher's doll eyes its sparking

of painful red strap marks on the cactus makes

the latter simulate a sad loaf – this begs the question,

how does one compromise geometry with our sky?

It's gotten too close to said sky, whose tribal tattoo

curls smilingly. Beer barrels puzzle the void

without panic. Hurriedly strange cannibalism

still holds its sense of floating. Such plastic has

been lagging behind in the leprosy of our behemoth

sun's legless blinking, an energy, a central bank,

mired in life.

 

The sex symbol's inflatable cape is a ragged circumcision

with eerie parallels in castor oil, so get your fuck on amid heavy flames

across the flip-flopping bumper sticker sent from ancient time

through pneumatic tubes to the tune of the vape artist's nose whistle,

an Albanian's gaffe like the teasing of a sour gas or the shearing of a

carpet, a botched grooming that switches that feeling of steel up your ass

to a quashing of laundry, a screaming at a sex offender rejecting

the grinding, trying to take from the greasy bandanna whose essence

gushes over the punching bag of realism injecting death's shallow

shit portrait with the dust that knocks about broadly like ink only found

in the study of birds - the hardest marbling floats like a silly syndrome,

a haunted army surplus at risk of breaks between the seam deepening

in the death suit of a portable statue, blinded by the gory rush: so far

the pick-up vulture only eats your wife. A mom and pop operation in

the basket of dear life. The remotest of juices, the diarrhea on big tits,

reflecting my face. See my face. Slashed with fever. The lizard's

tunnels are your chosen booby trap. The insect can't not keep up.

On an average day, the ant was looking to fuck the Queen mildly

but came as if out of a box, his unraveled body sort of squared up. The

vibe crushed literally in the basement.

 

With spoon fanged bitter

cracking, there was a

beheading in the abattoir

like frat house perpetuation

of compost heap through

bird binoculars... Homie

neon deeply empty,

six shooter jeans plastered

with human hands.

The gimmick is killing

me, marred by the cord

plugged into my eyes –

rolling, they hang themselves...

Stand on the lump over there!

Sitting on the floor dead is too

intense. Stones grained like a fan.

Flattened would've been

nice, a simpler oozing. Cold cum

blockage safely; vampire mugshot is

my fate, anxiously confronting

the burglar naked...

Forklift sex on camera,

pouch shivering. Throws up

amazing mango. Maniac fart

prolapsed dusty crushes.

 

I'm on the tapeworm diet through the penis moon of Somalia

The helicopter which consisted of cells has gone quiet

It looks nice when it snubs purple

A missile from the robot's bladder acts as lemonade storage

Piss ushers back tears in a multiple nod

The tiny razors of the spider woman at home are calm

Yogurt inflation ahead of the unexpected

I woke up and it was disappointing

It washes out slightly more than holding one's breath

in the seamless malaria of AI booing watermelons

More dirt erased by sleeping on a bikini

does not seek to bother a nomad shepherding country music

Why all the congestion in a barrel?

 

That iron man, Elvis, that horoscopic songstress of the

deep well, ingests its own bathing suit like a stabbed

envelope. The jukebox rears its head, pushes for a gap

in the dense psychic sound tubing the flatlands as

quietly as possible. A white hole stuffed with her teeth.

The titillation hangs over a serial killer,

rips through the mushroom that revolves around Atlantis

with a zoo's hottest forest dreamt up in percussive

methane; the puffy worms crawl in laundry

like a truck sliding on its eyeballs, fall into her panties,

less space strings the taco together, a disease in the

playhouse flicking its detergent minus the spikes of

ghetto ash. The titan squatting overhead, tossing, feeling

himself, simmering while hiking and, only until his expansion

grows in its rigid closet, will cicadas hold their scum jagged

in his ass, will his ass's tongue's eggs embrace themselves, the

color of skin conducting its silky parts, eating the paralyzed

cunt's crypt-parts, the first pork-half's malfunction will

render tea, please, genitals, peak! Nails, deteriorate!

Beehive cartilage, harness the massive growths inside!

Why, clearly the most polluted shadow of the bureaucrat

is saving lives by spouting a horse's ear, while harmful prevention

is all YOU are capable of...

 

I strive to set fire to her

breasts consciously or

in one form of doll

Dating another bird

sparks clouds of reckless

driving, metal tied between

similarities to a mutant

strap-on: now people believe they've

stamped glass in

drowned cooking

across stale porn!

E.g. sword self-empties,

doles out tapeworm across

increasingly embarrassing

boundary, etc.

A puzzle hacked into pieces

ratchets up a maze

like a face pushing past

a woman on a barstool –

in depth repeating for

her sickle combing fucking

half of Nigeria

I don't know why it

turned into an argument

and cut that wig wrinkled

She disappeared very briefly,

friendly. I recognized

her, though... It was her

own doing. A floating bump

An inner peace bag

Together we'll kidnap

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

at the edge of river buttocks

with a pantyful of Chernobyl oil

Cheese in an endless chimney

A genetic disease in your gut

We walk through before-and-

after impressions nude

Operating heavy machinery

in a little town filled with the

funny noises of true love blind

and rolled-up in a phonebooth,

taunting a football

I'm not listening to the warbling of

a punching bag's tendency towards

light murder. There's nothing

I can do but tackle a headstone

crooked, slow-airpump and thumb

my nose flat on a yacht, and drop

my ambient blur into

her mythical apple core