The
apparatus wields data in a font made of shit.
The
cropped blood vessels of a puppy thug online.
The
mindscape's poked bladders are full as fuck.
The
meteor gets thrown into the wastebasket from a dirty bike.
The
Satanic medium's elevator cartilage is also media.
The
drug riffles loneliness into realism.
The
helicopter God swallowed twitched like a dead tumor perched with
bemusement among the other falsehoods in transit, prank dark matter
disembodied from the pornographic animation beamed by an electronic
cigarette in Crop Circle plastics instead of smoke rings swelling
into the strychnine bonnet of a Rocky Horror Picture Show
scream-ensemble above humanoid livestock grazing on all the tea of
Mars like Google's air-anatomy perched routinely and flu-like atop
the horizontal mental sculpture of a dolphin therapeutically tattooed
by Hitler into an illusion of nightmare intercourse acting as Waster
of Correlations and murderer of the spirit of beer and pussy.
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