Oblivion used to be sexy all over –
gathered near an affectionate but
elusive pore.
Feeding it splits it, the spewing metal
lampshade of Pinhead's constipation.
In a metallic confluence of Gulag
desiderata,
aorta-yolk returns home –
a prodigal curiosity.
While Stockholm syndrome forges a sock
through which his dickcheese bores,
Hitler's growing amusement is
inappropriate;
it has suddenly mushroomed, like a
werewolf,
a sebaceous human centipede
that, the bigger it gets, disappears
into the crowd.
Literal moth leak here and there sticks
dandruff-style
to the blades of a figurative
lawnmower, which is attractive to it,
which is a flapping, spring-loaded
cluster of literal and
figurative
Blackface magic.
Things slowly and deliberately scrape
the pinata. What the unfathomable membrane
broadcasts alternates between lumpy
bumping carts and omniscient schoolgirl.