Satan
appears dead, conquers by slurping. Parks, spins
warmer
earthquake-tailed. A clicking
blend of gears'
regurgitated fog upsets stomach's gaping symmetry.
Loosens mummified ear, dismembers horn.
The fool's tools produce a
sound.
Social
media Quidditch bitch. Gratuitous rhyme
baking in
the aftermath.
You, Blockbuster, sound
like an insomniac's creepy peanuts calibrating –
a soul
underlies the kinked tubes of the scarecrow in the trunk,
a thistle
of levitating pimp. The devil may either sneakily loosen the small
shirt
buttons of the maggot, or straight up SuperSoaker the world's
tarantula-mask
as it cranks out gold kidney stones while cranking.
Radical
binge time traveler with false knife.
On whose
big cock perches the quantum samurai
of the
black-and-white orgies, computer arteries
undermining
the island unevenly, no homo.
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