YOU SHIT FREAKY SHIT

I've always been unhappy about my gym wig promoting

the vague psychiatric meatball underneath.

But my thoughts are willing to assemble an asylum from ozone nails;

I am grateful to the mutant wheelchairs, for the general

setting up of a peaceful, delightful alternate reality in which the

synapses of a gorilla may forfeit their hideous bed-smell.

A boxing glove on a spring haunts on a whim. More importantly,

it attaches to everything. It can be traced back to a larger

diversity of fish green chaos. Pee-colored mattresses ensuing

from abrupt, violent delays in the metropolis, seamless odd-shaped

blood splatter swirling weirdly in graves. When the superhero

insect-fucks the thug, the latter accepts that the former is not

removable – siphoning mauve cancer from ubiquitous pores.

You shit freaky shit while munching on the finger of doom.

You shit freaky shit while staring into the hypno-shower curtain.