THE FUTURE'S TONGUE

Wrinkles from outerspace are my receptor. The great ruin up there's geysers' gentle overreach. The diversity the crocodile-shift engendered below. Unusual trash. Crusting arithmetically. Our hairy bottom drawer. Sour feeding. The Oreo will disperse, if you so much as cut the cord. A molting delaying joy. Hysteria's intervals relayed. In times of shaky gravy. Shaggy vapor. The usual wild dwarf; whereas partial ham is extremely rare. Sprawling risking popping. I miss spit. The ghastly changes in the incinerator. Cutting the grass. Resolving the egg. Bunions jutting out of egg. Thin vessels jingling in egg's swastika. Today's tongue feels like deja vu. Just now's tongue floats parallel to today's tongue. As does the future's tongue. As does the future's future's tongue. It might hold my chin in. My tongue holds your chin in. I deploy all my bunions in battle. Five bunions I already got trapped in a special cannonesque vial. All anatomy serves as distraction. Connective socks serve walking. I bought a mold of a cheerleader. My sensory organs have grown into a straightjacket. A donut full of a carpet's pressure.