In order to avoid extinction sauropods manipulated their ersatz
bratwurst attachments with pneumatic tantra. The limbs could
fully embrace space. While dying, and while fucking, the beasts
sounded like car horns.
In the final moments of the Jurassic era, a cloud above their
heads had a yellow reddish rash through it and its pockets
slowly shed stale vase water and other combinations of yellow,
reddish sky-fluid.
The news anchors berating you these days, sauropod, all tend to be 10
feet tall; with their primitive hinge joints, they pull paper
across the desk leaving deep, farinaceous drag marks.
Our thirst for urban legends have turned away from you
and plunged itself into e.g. the mystery surrounding the origins of
Tom Hanks' ugly kids, even after the very casts from which
they'd been lifted had been discovered in his basement, and even
as our modern instruments will debunk the mystery further by
cracking the algorithm that drives the brats' abominable biomechanics,
that make them shuffle, gorge on hamburgers, and warble
incoherently into their armpits during sleep.
The new generation of sauropod is the common house lizard
sunbathing on a boom box outside my trailer. In a Polaroid
on my dining room table, a ghost can be seen arranging the
furniture of my trailer. Fearing the rumbling sounds sometimes
coming from the Polaroid, I will roboticize my kitchenette
and all its transformations will pertain to that special state of rest
found only in hot, delicious pudding. When agitated, however,
the robot kitchenette would spit beer and meat.
