Poetry Killed My Brother!

There's a memory wearing a bandage in the lavatory. A dragon flicks its thick, granular tongue at the thin veener of an actual plot. The face is comprised solely of linguists, and it disappears whenever the air glows. A contingent form of black snow, you tango on command and smoke the kinks in your own afro. Nothing traverses discrete distances like a sea of gorillas. A litany of water circles the tomb and extracts the soul resting there. Toxic oracles murmuring an infant's waist over a single psychedelic frequency. But tryptamine cities always evaporate her platinum head. Eighteen suggestive glances from a cannon depletes the entire bed of its wiry egalitarianism. Temperatures are fed to the bone for having the temerity to mimic an artist's tenderness. Telepathic hands resembling a bag of feathers draw with quills for that authentic reggae feel.

Ultimately, you get two witches out of the deal, plus a fifth round draft pick in the differences between blue and yellow teeth. You are initially versed in sirloin's unique blend of plasma and frosty hegemony, its laughing shimmer. Each heartless stare at residual sonics left to languish in post-avant-garde histrionics, like foam exploding out of the ears of the latest gestalt. It's all the same flying saucer, anyway. Your harem, however, has become aquatic and stained with exile's soiled tissues. I kneel before your silken corridors, their sobriety an ovarian cyst racing by at the stroke of midnight. I've been aerodynamic all this time, yet you refuse to see the performance art in that.

It's a tear from the heart of the headless Goddess, as well as a monthly bribe from the dance macabre in every synthesis. Your pecan grandmother down in the mongrelized cyborg valley. It's mnemonic is everywhere judged to be a pretty nude, an absence of praying vomit, when plastic flowers discover they are the daughters of its mouth. I could easily extoll the loving beast of diamonds, they're from the same tapestry many women adopt on their way to lesbianism. This tremendous noise doesn't help anyone profit from the seven mountain paths to an evening's split jeans.

Illegal loincloth harvests. Hurricanes served with soup. Jets congregate with her bleached voice. That polite tangle of words is apparently not an elbow.

Your slick precision wraps itself tightly around the base of my pet skyscraper. Mayhem watching the television until the walls are crucified. Love is not meant to be dry-cleaned. I look at wooden cats like a power-chord baking language. A film of the senses turns into a strange new fascism, one that lovingly sits at the feet of bacteria. On philosophical razor-blades this phrase is forever engraved: Do Not Lick Your Own Brainwaves, Lick Mine Instead. Intravenous apologies will usually suffice.

Everyone is a down-loadable video, all I can do is decorate my skeleton with piles of discarded sheet-music from the rag-time era. That kind of bleakness can't be replaced. One of us has to disobey the atom. It doesn't matter who, this is where our mutual elixir has to clear the incision of its terminal halitosis. Grains of sand are still referred to as the opposite direction. When silence returns to the ghetto, neurons of delight hold steadfast in their desire to storm the subconscious of every shabby transient beneath their golden nostrils. In the matrix there lives a madman who can repeal the property taxes that bark like spinal fluid and computer therapy tied to the same leash. Another vaginal error due to the executioner's poor spelling and atrocious syntax folds, then releases a squall latent with sex appeal into the ham sandwich dripping from your hair. Emerge alive after crashing every ounce of your sad, aching flesh into a Mandelbrot equation the likes of which this dimension has never seen angry.