Depths Thief

The Colonel stripped down to the bone.

A heavy T-Rex that has slept all day's hot taint.

A bright dog in pure lightning.

Thief of depths!

Lube is an explicit luxury.

Straws stuck weepy into a cloistered dummie's suicide flap.

Octopi licking pig's blood off of fried chicken.

Their genitals crash-testing its incomplete bladder.

Atmospheric mush of role-player energy drinks.

Carrie's malware tool tricks magic.

Resuscitated the sad dungeon master on E-cig vanilla.

Minnie Mouse finishes the Gameboy.

Dead crows. Fluff in their bellies.

Bunny ranch oxygen cake. 

Advertising the cramps of 911's seedy architecture.

The anatomical syringe's puke cycle.

Frack Disney

The infernal spring-pressure of Gotham's pop-up Frankenstein and Silicon Valley's levitating rust and the Bermuda Triangle's throbbing wet gills is a necessary force that pushes like the sand of a Pinterest burial vortex applied on a prone, unprotected area to reach deep comfort in tapeworm-like depravity from any position inside Bowser's sweatpants locked in 90s Quidditch. Do you see. Cats wear helmets when the sky looks like the sky if the sky were the earth's curious haircut or a pretty NASA food mural impaling space with a mesmerizing hate-illusion that doesn't match its own red underlight. Do you see. The real Alice Cooper's strange noises match a good drum machine's strange noises. I'm a thumb-flavored Satan who will probably not deteriorate over time, says time. The Spongebob hordes clean off the sap from, without marking the, skeleton trees of Disney-fracked pussy time-clouds. Monsters force their own diaper-connections to a bacterial religion out of fucking town while becoming less and less receptive to the green gods infesting the gutters of OkCupid like 7-inch pixels that trellis the medical paradise of my chugging computer's interior soap opera like small hard dinosaur penises. Do you see. 

Miss World

Mine melt. Shit whack.

Demon warp. Bed boner.

And nut. Gun hotline.

And bake. Ass bones.

Ejaculate lifelike.

A generic Dungeons & Dragons fruit sharknado.

The mass creature the saddest outbreak welcomes.

I like to make out with Lara Croft.

My monk nipples:

the baddest pyramidal

butterfly spectrum

at the mall.

Maid parsing.

A clustered creature.

Chickenshit internet feelings;

A one size fits all goliath.

Psychedelic phone sex veneer.

Miss World. Wii dangle.

HTML Dwarf

The cross sprayed with teenage probiotics. Also the HTML Dwarf on its dark squab.

Teal eyebrow of the orangutan cocked. James Franco the pinned Parallel Teddy Bear.

Man, you pull more music from muff, and vice versa, with a disintegrator

than thieves grind projectile sweat, softly, from shut windows.

No, I merely blog about armpits –

ironically, the joie de vivre crackles pterodactylic

like a collect call from the cum cops;

the long cancer seeks a return socket
in the form of an arcade rat massacre.

Nubbin

The gorilla's third nipple – rather than its dystopian shedding – is it. That is the answer. And being high. Less the apocalyptic KNOB OF THE NIGHT than ... mince, God is the central tree which willingly touches my dead amphibian buttock. Bumper sticker-grim. Repetitive ping-pong with a chemical smell. Grandma exists beneath the visor's rock 'n roll hand. Desert drug transmission-spheres intimately earwax ... hotrod-elusive. The black lips of Dracula stretch loudly. Hookah the demon core's rhinestones couch potato-tacky, like planetarium glitter caking up nubbin-louche; satisfying the psychoanalytic tipping point on the volcano's ribcage. A juggalo peers from behind its devilish, shallow brain aggregate. The cold blast's naturally obscure plug. Malignant proxy piss – silence that impales cold excrement. 

"App" – The Movie

A flash of beige, borg garbage

still haunts the cartoon, ouija meat disaster.

Pee sleep melts hard, ghost murderer.

Steam elephant – with basketball –

the killer radio self constipated

from beyond, where I carve up the body of a jellyfish

and knew the Microsoft moonpolice

and drone turds texting in

dark, cratered handjob rap

feed a contiguous, Samsung buzzcock biomech.

I love the die app, love poop simulator

with a Walmart axe, taco improbably –

anal yoga, scorpion itch.

"App" – the movie.

Tintin Upskirt

A permanent disablement option or

setting to leave an unconscious robot fetus

backwards loop on all the nice bits of machine

nurse presence a “storage green” bleep

of occult vintage butts, dirt/foreign body ingress

and interconnected frog leg penis robot

ninja suckers electrode nipple chain

scorched feet to silent infinite clown balls  

in an experimental marrying of gangster fuzz

motherboard rubber orbit measured doughnut

blood gulps in rat fuck wizard product fade

tight Tardis headroom output choke and tarantula blood

crust umbrella boing with some harsh ashtray shame bruise

spork doom sour - and making friends in

the actual arbitrary fake snow tight spread Tintin upskirt

narcissist substance wedding vermin

spew over long party cadaver tooth ever since

the bloody human face jamb, eliciting boning

and cyborg nano porno fibers of radioactive

mirror ganglia glare with ninja turtle jug

singularity – then blend enjoying her permanent

3D printed strand of ribbed McDonald's

desiccated screw doll shark skull accelerator

Tool masked with Ernie's dog worm taint 

rancid, opaque, coitus demon super particles

scratch love furniture bloody knees of action

figure.