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...