The sex symbol's inflatable cape is a ragged circumcision

with eerie parallels in castor oil, so get your fuck on amid heavy flames

across the flip-flopping bumper sticker sent from ancient time

through pneumatic tubes to the tune of the vape artist's nose whistle,

an Albanian's gaffe like the teasing of a sour gas or the shearing of a

carpet, a botched grooming that switches that feeling of steel up your ass

to a quashing of laundry, a screaming at a sex offender rejecting

the grinding, trying to take from the greasy bandanna whose essence

gushes over the punching bag of realism injecting death's shallow

shit portrait with the dust that knocks about broadly like ink only found

in the study of birds - the hardest marbling floats like a silly syndrome,

a haunted army surplus at risk of breaks between the seam deepening

in the death suit of a portable statue, blinded by the gory rush: so far

the pick-up vulture only eats your wife. A mom and pop operation in

the basket of dear life. The remotest of juices, the diarrhea on big tits,

reflecting my face. See my face. Slashed with fever. The lizard's

tunnels are your chosen booby trap. The insect can't not keep up.

On an average day, the ant was looking to fuck the Queen mildly

but came as if out of a box, his unraveled body sort of squared up. The

vibe crushed literally in the basement.