Filthy art.

You claim me like the edge of static, revolving as a finished vinyl sounds through the speakers. My dreams dissolve like uranium that triggers the gun that kills the cat that was alive and dead. Tickle the missile as it tops the charts this week. Its already been downloaded more than it's sold. Odd. I somehow gathered that the film we ingested was as confused as it was backward, raped and injected like a seal we clapped and danced each time for a glimpse of her bosom and the sounds she made as she held the trigger. My right hand was itching. "lets touch the screen" and we did.

We always did.

Together we hijacked a bookshelf and crashed it into physics. As the up and coming threat of intellectualism transfers into the distance and interferes with a diagram. Clearly you can see interference (diagram 2.1). You claim me like the obtuse angle of the camera during anal sex. Your new point of view in the world where newspapers are your gas masks in the preceding chaos that reigns from Mon-Wed. Chase me like a ghost when the world gets a glimpse of her dislocate-able jaw as it slides over it's prey. To think we could all be speaking rising sea levels and temperature changes, severe weather conditions and the likes.

But you can't take her to the bank to cash those tears. x2.

If you take away my fears you'll give me nowhere to hide.