Diaper King

The catheter is real. Jesus whips clotheslines Aladdinesque,

hurting speptick for toxic waste but not for tha wind. A toilet paper roll

misdiagnosed with the combined buzz of a pop-up book

and the Death Star spewing fantastic video chat onto its own ant face, mugwump-
starvin' vape-rolls, jazzin' spine and wheezin' aerosol the personal miasma's algorithm-
shitty length impervious to whimsical piss-crunches, and Michael Jackson.

I wasn't there for my tattoo's volatile non-literal inflammation desensitizing toadstools.

Fuck it. I wasn't there for my spirit animal's non-literal stoner rant, either, mwah.

In the gulch, evolution's black mass snorty in the schlug, with strange noises

like a galaxy coming quietly to the window, like toilet paper sticking carefully to the road...

Organ failure encourages dependence on a really ergonomic glory hole

like vanilla waving pretty off-white in a diaper –

“Perhaps the whole hospital could be enlarged in some way,

could smeg 94 on my dick somehow,” safe-word the nerf's dead comet high ride;

swag-word cerebral grofl's good egg nasal probe invisible to sadism,

over-attracted to electro-scat wikiwhomp, frawigg bi-slinga to the derp medium's

cold mental chicken hardware, retro-raja kick-jjjwk kinda roxy on the gobchoo-ttt,

hypno-puppypee erased clog rung in the waxy pie Sega's grommet.