If
you stare into the abyss, you will fuck up the abyss. Here's a montage of
the infection. Brilliant thaw dulls blood. Like the cellophane-like
membrane of a cozy fireplace, Satan's Morphsuit weeps raw magma.
Organic gods stroke each others' orange peel, trippin balls on Viagra. They have about as much fun as aliens visiting earth
in rental ozone diapers. Amoebas hear in bland stereo, skin trapped
in animated acne. Emphysemic Lego dances to its own farty clicks,
sits cross-legged on Mars's video game moss. At one point,
universe-fat becomes the Bigger Picture. On earth, I failed every
barbwired polygraph. It was relieving. Digging how chemistry
accelerates self-awareness, at parties. Seducing stones out of
hiding. Filling a crack in the door with limbs that try to stage a
chicken uprising in order to run through the sunset's Jurassic pancake. The
soul's dark matter now wears Christmas jumpers while its digital
muscles mow the lawn, forming a big wound that spills trash
from its gross sphere. Dials spaz out, eccentric shitfaced
mystery-manure sprout erogenous touch points shaped like hooves.
At last, in a fusing of channels rooted in
worn-out spandex, the haunted-house
echoes of friction are sealed in by the constriction
of beauty.
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