Masturblogging

The grinder of universal space gargles shrimp, the movement of its music overlapped by a puppy yelping forlorn and forever in some kind of background where the material constituted by everything hangs out, 3-D printed gibberish that hunts with a kind of detached mind, like an ancient pillow or a stiff wheel. An ancient trailer wreck becomes mean in a trailer park, overnight, eating nuns in an all-bran bug-out of special KKK, in Japan, the stressed fires of its Transformer hands deconstructed into Shadow Puppet 666. I didn't even get/give any flowers. The more shapeless, the better. “The less shapeless, the better,” says the ocean, painting its dick blackface. “Ah, but then bright wool left Dracula's shaved pussy shaved-looking if brightly woolen.” And Jesus vined my vomit möbius with a toilet duck. The perks of being/having a whore. The loud bursting of bugs silenced in deadsock redux, a robot idiot turd zapped by the rocket science of the night. Looking up, it's as if someone has draped their laundry over an electric chair. Fistfighting scum in the wake of Jackson Pollock's road trip. Fistfucking lobsters with the constipation of the night ... Eventually, your mom darkened the sky orange in a clockwork of elderly-lady openings filled with my turds; a comfortable symphony of redundant daddy-amputations, harder to press into a dress. An all CAPS lapse into handjobcoma squeezes more internet than meat from a floppy disk, enough to fill an X-Files specimen jar or to crawl all over your bitch sleepily. A temporary address for the new earthquake, punk as Easter eggs Storm Trooper-lubricated in a pre-emptive application of sanity to the jigsaw puzzle of Humpty Dumpty's broken mind, midair. Hot singles in your area. Gasping with natural delight in masturblogging weed-wreathed wristwatch-like white.