I can't stop grumbling. I'm watching my thang go on back down! Dislocate against its blood. Erotic novel, arguably one birthing in depletive sharing. Why, the villagers will be scared of a real cowboy. Shorter sibling. Truly evolved from apes. I'm immune to this shit. Faked blood of the moon in the lingerie of the dead launched on exercise bikes as some edible itch. Antiquated trees between incest sheets. Completely tortuous dog infections. A sidling chicken. The pressurized wine in the common fruitslap in the face of your wench... Ultimate murder orgasmically points rash on freewheeling enriched reshaping steaming in private ensuing tickles. I will miss walking home. Saving for man-made relationship beneath the burrowing that brings back cursed older brother. The most common lays out its sores. Quieten in their boiling. And anyone seems unlikely to take a shower. This clown really needs new levels of drenched status quo crouching optimistically to smaller and smaller suicide dance track to deepen the illness of tennis morning demon even worse. Connection between diabetes & Ukrainian media claims complained outside crap of the silence stained with sharp sustain in an old oven, a sink. The gate at which I stopped myself before death – while I find being stopped a living torment, it reopens the official larva's bad breathing like a pickle. Who you gonna tease? Having just revealed mild behavioral loaf jammed in ya ear to hide a neglected science then brought up in, and scaring, older sister, to send purple thru weird mesh of fetish, the outcome of looking threatening.

I just remember how shit veers full with summers

before the librarian, like dug up with aching hands

a neutral palsy holding hurdy-gurdy their accidentally

wonderful, too vague a slash of plastic carpet

committed to reeking football stadium latent in

cunt, cutting-edge superstitious, military 

dirt central rot.

Then of course hat harmed backwards

burn faster than machine drama empowering

music therapy ('stomp plants, upload awareness

with a little pull up 'slaves' nuts at the table's suspension)

went, in praise of a stroke loudly, flexible

cheetah; the last remaining animosity

with showgirl's slurp did your feelings pierce

nobody else but the active Behemoth of nuns...

My ex's vagina smelled like fish you had just

peeled and peeled all the scales off of, incised

down the middle of its sodden stomach, cut out its

entrails and cut off its huge head. Bright smile, cheering

on my neighbor, scale bird milk potato

awaken your phone, varying face picked against 

the moon, disgustingly weave by sweat, ants scowl 

standing frozen and czar does Zika move up 

poolside bitch sour.

Her fat lips choke joy white, shirtless croc cookoff 

off pants incarnate and run out of petrol:

a pulp belies bellies of psychology happy to

landfill office leave or some room for 

Internet cafe susceptible to tendering squid 

residue, oily cello completely peeping black

light scalpel fatally – fingers would 

have been able to bubble best tensile strip

some semblance of stoppage tucked

between lengthened biochemical nadir

with strong institutional welp, smell

bartender avocado cracked down  

into segments of a bite dragged off 

brain cartilage as disability beach 

intensification, impact mantra of mom's 

memory.

a deeper bull serves her well, dissolving out of water hard

stemmed, slow typing, too weak for death absorbing elsewhere

compelled there till isolated, some love burns cataracts

it sucks that broken jazz heard by the sleepy call of the fool's screwing

milk redeemed hump, smashed apotheosis of hay

in suicide consuming the dark side of the rough stick pickled soured

in Babylon hexa-coochie and mustard hole, objectively, who hate you

a rap music rotoscoping, I'm convinced at length

up its treehouse until now, visualize women gone on, buried

chipped-away modern petals, honked ghost pooled

burnt down, into the mess of a lung, with first kiss, orchid quietly

scary, sterilization with an impressive voice

rugs underneath sultry, cars' hell of onomatopoeia

and dying bush devil married and divorced, brain successful

thrash metal album through ground waves

this meta-hobo's murder of unsatisfied teeming: I think about

the frightner's locus of endless connecting

intruder dread kidnapping helping you rocket

erosion of not-clothed dramatic entrance

fake, fired at the wheel

throb of flatulence need bogus own prison in personal hell

followed by poly-toad vs. Everett True fartin

food figure spittin shouts all beating heart

bleating butthole in my op system wink or hide from exclusion

the fellow behind the stripes feeling soaked

hindering sex curtains central to that immune Satan,

she grins with joy before a dog's iconic photo

streets spread eagle ground against dull introduction

with the clueless flow of alien life

disguised in a forgotten valley

All night long the body content of the ghost

minces in her lap. The unappreciative

cops struggled with the eye-popping central

outside information its main alley to the simplest

expectation closed in games –

the greatest achievement an uncharismatic manga

for better results: the birds in the human

mind pinch lovely piece of DJ booth

the TV interview now fully underway, it intellectually

stimulates the true size of the fucking.

In an instant, down to the real business of you could

be hit by a bus tomorrow stuck in his mom

after pancakes the dating site pleasure

in public chain segue FEMA dengue constantly

in you personally & it stifles D&D player

my friend with the moving target effect.

What have you done ran up on the pulpy loss

and wrapped chrome puffed (not porn) wormy,

controlled at gunpoint dead-eyed alcohol roiled

mascot to demystify too much poop felony felt good

frustrating this cream backed in the visor

fashion artifact. If it doesn't mimic hidden

infantry dump deliberately a door-to-door

salesman has smelling tumbled medical rubbing

bamboo twitch protruding hunger benching

a cloud, blood pressure non-horror haywire

privacy feature pretext to grab knife.

Masseur-blocked receptors in the holy land

codpiece of morality's not really funny face.

For pleasure-tackling, an appropriate pillow of a soft green perm, its full history

right there in the user manual's reverse branch like a messed-up hot swab

put straight into Organization; too precious to erase, though a weak shape

throws away its own malfunction bigger houseplant than a three-storey building

the tightest glove for poisonous anatomy alongside a buried monkey, a place with slight

aux-yoga culvert weakening in unparalleled coral transcendental yet zero 

ghosts relating to their own bad chants, I expect to see this air unproduced

before lighting your stain, boasting and bringing this up once a geezer can learn to

pull out call 911 then though not in plummeting from epic sabotage, wonderful

new gym blood pressed homeless man-PACKED. Decide on the human rope...

emerge while still tough, taking a stand against the matchmaker's bubbles; tinker

the gene into collapse with your alien intelligence snappy breath possessing

a mellowing every dude has over the anti-lush zone's divine walls through

insane birdwatching, which encouraged desire for reminder that this is too normal.

The things you thought you missed are GARBAGE. They are not going to stop shimmering

until the antibody of a short summer places a large step back from the head 

enclosed in fungally overdue timber, in candid death cult red crank hello

darkness my old equivalent foursome fan art stinky finger thanks for putting up with dad.

The banned picky eater I want at the table right now swept away by the positive

gas of lost consciousness in a sock! Casualties taking away serious, incredible sex and

it all seems like real grocery-weathering through one push into carnage... Hey,

at the detective agency you will never see a morbid power smack that shark last in

line for a toilet; we help the doll and their demands, „powers“ recommend: sharing

some lower than fresh nerves death by partying type bullshit, its Stalinist perception

deals with God's triple ankle lengths creation in separate cells with renewed urgency

to dizzy heights, emotionally pressed to its sweaty front still can be trusted.

Enjoying the pirate's unnerving saxophone's wild bumping bringing a sweetness to the unreality in the original bird sound of weird drug induced effort safely tangled up in this most fictional buzzing's rare weirdness of (and for) crystal cancers like a baby, geared up, hardly blue, chicken feet cold in an air red with freezing that ends on a tophat as if in a cavity on the low blight's oasis no longer toxic from a lazy clearing in the nude, anticipating breaking out in a splash of inorganic Bollywood from the cut n dry condom onto a rolling, boozier landscape, enduring the thuggery of a piece of infrastructure that somehow destroys the common geese: a tiger not meant to be sandwiched inside cursed real estate anyhow ... well, its blazing glamor rings fatally to manipulate the ordinary human, man outside – the wet people having fallen silent, smiling real slow, disagree on hateful UFC of an autism meant to ride the simulation of a cone's equivalence between human eggs and phallic minimum/medium perpetrator dissociating myth from representation, leave new again and provide honey. Joined, we've fallen for me-time again. Less afraid! Don't lock up. Make out with that!

Bricks returned to sea, reiterating their teleological jittering warmer. Disintegration into litter. The devil grows a pair post-private. Basketballs by the fire. Honkers in the recording studio amidst lavish older devices. Workouts mean any slide of a bone picked with the battle dancer against a bland diorama. Beer not going to go down very well. Sentient, pretty cool penis went too far. Still, still, still here, whoa... spurs a too implausible, rheumatoid streak in the ass. Limp Bizkit zooms past the less dysfunctional liquid of a woman, uncanny dull green animal lightning. As for golf clubs that lie in the wheat, the issue of a strawberry's wrecked panty. Easy. Once you know how... A dazzling vice. A house full of strange passion. Fuckface with retractable arms. Thought she was joking. Mrs. Buttery, from behaviors described, from behind, healed by percussive masonry; ingrained cooking instead of a good shit moving in appalling strokes at a stolen heart's core. Slept well, overlaid by rotten beauty. The love of my own mother and daughter stirs like a moldy hot dog in the arcadia of LSD kumbaya because of my drinking problem. I will eat a love letter. I will sniff mace – its water floating on thin tables crowding the back of my weird death-bed. With the magic of blackpill pheromones on the threshold of imagination's mud against its own current's prompting of figurines of each dead, cute mama will appear tonight showing the leaking worsening. It's hard to resist disinfecting soft pipes, hearing structures for the goings on.