Tastes Human

Quantum mechanics unknot a cop's weird innermost jaw. A razor floats in the tank's fuckable cranial chocolate. “I look like a violent model,” the cop says. “Crusher of criminality. Curator of unspeakable, breathing material.” The evolution of random leaks in the tank's event horizon into dark underground clouds, farty pornographic headaches impregnated by dead things. Like a clubbed mother asteroid, a baby seal plays dead in traffic's organic wave-forms. Decrepit shelves fall away in Minecraft as spoons cluster-kiss the grave's double slit. On the holodeck, a human taste rips through lifelike sculptures; i.e. from a ruptured diva exits an orange, negative Bartman with smug tits and patchy beard; i.e. Riker's cartoon muscles spit black blood into this sweetened UFO, himself. And OkCupid nudges another pushpin into Frankenstein's monster, even though he's jacking off to Flickr.