The Trial

I am in love with old roadkill's 50 shades of bursting sausages. Webbed fingers wreck asteroids in my dreams. Like meat hooks, they haunt only the buffet's gray areas. 50MB worth of streaming eviscerates puddles, contradicts geysers and geysers of Earthman pee. Tesla-weed further whips the fever into a Luddite horror show of sheathed all-you-can-eat. Look at the stupid robot cry. Jerking my empathy. Who'd ever buy the beta home empathy-jerker? An ogre which because of its demonic clockwork makes jerk-off motions at tiny life forms and tiny circumstantial fluctuations, meanly? Ironic that being on Big Brother instilled in the Nexus replicant its passion for gauche microbes, with the soft patience of a teacher. Big asteroids make it shit its pants. The latter asteroid-induced shitting of pants is a veritable soap opera embedded in stone. My warts, too, feel haunted. The protons. Oh the protons. I don't know. Webbed fingers liquidate the oddity behind Kafka's loincloth's last roaming snot-out. Yet even the meaningless conga-lines in court are not quite inert.