That iron man, Elvis, that horoscopic songstress of the
deep well, ingests its own bathing suit like a stabbed
envelope. The jukebox rears its head, pushes for a gap
in the dense psychic sound tubing the flatlands as
quietly as possible. A white hole stuffed with her teeth.
The titillation hangs over a serial killer,
rips through the mushroom that revolves around Atlantis
with a zoo's hottest forest dreamt up in percussive
methane; the puffy worms crawl in laundry
like a truck sliding on its eyeballs, fall into her panties,
less space strings the taco together, a disease in the
playhouse flicking its detergent minus the spikes of
ghetto ash. The titan squatting overhead, tossing, feeling
himself, simmering while hiking and, only until his expansion
grows in its rigid closet, will cicadas hold their scum jagged
in his ass, will his ass's tongue's eggs embrace themselves, the
color of skin conducting its silky parts, eating the paralyzed
cunt's crypt-parts, the first pork-half's malfunction will
render tea, please, genitals, peak! Nails, deteriorate!
Beehive cartilage, harness the massive growths inside!
Why, clearly the most polluted shadow of the bureaucrat
is saving lives by spouting a horse's ear, while harmful prevention
is all YOU are capable of...
