The
constellation seems to cling. Mouse embryos
stab
each other in their Martian jelly sac,
superimposing
pee stains over their mother's moon's
hip,
a comparatively small space to get clean.
The
sprinkling wastes itself. With odd new body posts
imitating
her original form, Snookie will come back
to
haunt us. A prefrontal blob gyrating in a spoon
so
that you cannot possibly shut off your mind.
The
mutant is just my mess. A sombrero refused
in
the crypt's shifting. Two things could've happened
to
the surviving mouse: it could've set itself on fire in its
earth-return.
The killer robot's Heimlich maneuver could've
uncoiled
it. It could've simply fizzled out on
the
killer robot's hand towel. Little bastard, you
could've
given us all a very exciting performance!
A
surge of blimp beneath the leaves. When not overrun
rich
with snorkeling, nudity is omission.
A
large, large, pleasing, pleasing capsule.
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