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...