Mostly this is due to farcical misunderstanding:

the century-long veneer of gossip as described by either

tunnel – valuable videogame black walls that baffle

drifting past the plane door stewed during unruly amount of duct-tape

in drawn goofball – my own pure busted-up secret style

strapped in beneath the blinding dew on an otter and my complete disregard for

television's glare flowering plumbing whether through forbidden

medical testing or by nestling in the stretched arms in which I really love

taking up space on your rug, my own tendrils bouncing in smutty excavation of

deer fat emboweled on the rivet of encephalopathy planted in different levels of shit

(feeling alright in my pod underground on a plank like rapidly drying railroad) –

for all I care the rear wheel could triple into all the wrong things hastily:

for triggering extreme blackout reunites with fire sickly and will

save us from drowning .... I have invested flogging and bloody bonding in the

most terrifying sausage decorated demonic by girls flooding hamburger

joint forever washing down eye-popping chemicals getting their periods

while rubbing feces into the machine that separates mysterious lavender

and packs up that sweet sweet algae in the sort of atmosphere with the

sort of sabotage I was pulled over on the shoulder of all this flesh 

sifting metamorphoses emotionally through their fingers...