Wintry
memories, like spiders stuck shiny
in the cold
porridge of the mind-software,
infest
crucial linkages in the bean-snowflake interface.
Sordid
farmer, now every bean is a shitty, downy carcass.
Let's hear
your jailhouse-flirt and their garbage-buzz locked
in
separate, stilted, unheard monologues. Beans dream.
Yeah, we've
all slept with Satan when he was bankrupt
or at a low point.
We've seen
Mr. Burns' jumpsuit block an entire beach. The spooky unseen
skeleton.
New Age underwear. Burger gun.
Orally, in
this shooter game, the victims begin to knot, orally, even at a
distance.
Imagine a
life in which the cryptids bowling team is not invited
to the
arctic afterdeath party. Streaks of snake oil trailing across your
Maxim.
“Oh
lobotomized body builder,” a caption in 38 different typefaces
reads,
“stop
hovering 26 feet in the air above your Ferrari, glumly.”
Lifehack:
stay in the squatting position for 81 hours to
prevent the
sun from baking your dump.
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