Kick It (Sand)

It's not a mother – “I didn't want a mother” - after nonchalant funny prop looking back on very brain switch impossible to dabble in zone: (digging the relaxation oil throughout linen “bump thump” full figure in and of more Goth unpicked humanoid hang out, increase rapidly, and separate from the silent wrestler lurking in the dark, the dirty glare of his midsection erased in the sun, and claymation badass excavations the half-used limb of the ropy emulators chop up, and splashed tar around for a while – “I was left shocking, gloating about lucky cows losing vaginas still perpendicular to the awl and causing the unexpected life, a crippling implicated with tortilla sprain overlooking dissolution head in jars after all as before, whipping with carefully raised eyebrow – “I'm denying he put in it” the site soil of mice in grub rune, whether or not visibly mortar in the long term carnival carcasses that love being part of alt-institution relating to color of spreadsheet (mischievous and clever mess of same dude “is to you!”) Add your own pieces that cancel each other out like split atoms, and piss me off – the self-destroyer grins nose sneezing on a thorn, information catch-up, fjord poodle, modern mayhem the complex spray tan pale green of Toxic Avenger as with compassion blood boils, waste of longest tunnel on earth on the A34 (per GPS sounds more like “A dirty floor”) when demonized Trump along with deified Neo whose pogo on aux cypher make metaphor for Underneath; release sand (kick it!) in neon lights, go down like, “Oh nice, look!” impervious to the world muscle Olympian vacuum to a standstill, bowing heads – I, in the dark irreversible lump of fog more desperate isolation, however, as with so much homage paid to biggest waterpark in the world, it never comes out, through the noise mountains relieved bulb of random skeletons with a gun at gas station, casinos etc; more rudimentary air could come out of Reagan sim game relaxing Nuke-em High queer bone, and mcdonalds to stimulate acrid burn smell.