WHAT DARWIN WOULD THINK OF THE SIMS

contrary to the split in my cold

gallows delivered the honey hole

a lick excerpted from the legless middle-face

a structure buffeted by textures of corn field

shades come adrift in gore's own valve; 
everything in the crypt's layout drops 

I cut my finger whilst tapping on the gears of lunch inside my mouth, twice

floss lurching; what very thin backs they have

the phenomenon we want drain-dyed, hanging over

scarecrow shoulders because of X dosage

junkie, stay tuned with your cane

everything on the weather channel is your fault

quick, that tornado, catch it with your elbow

a person with junk breath knows this:

he's going to be selected out; isolation's projector

sticks a certain type of rain to the dirty ceiling, in chunks

the apple we make to Pacman nine parasites

instead of grope the walls to evade them

its portrait arises in hot grease, blaring from a

headless cardigan; the plastic on the inside is cheap

Darwin would be impressed by the “old-computer” falsehoods

twitching on the floor like doormats; he'd host every event on

the Sims while concomitantly, in his old man disguise, playing

the bus wanker