THE OFFICE IN MY EYE THAT PHOTOGRAPHS MY DREAM
Nabs a magazine of meat departments. No one inside saying anything is as gruesome as first franchises. Chairs on crickets evaporate overeaten handbags followed by cameras through a malignancy. Sunk metal tooth. Black suck. Unusable teeth stuff the first franchise shooting. Cheeks on cameras outdoors. Tomato steel cling wrap isolates the madness of this dream. Flat magazine meat fit sheeted.
You spare a condom once you have a brain project it. The red ducks and red falcons get trash stuck to their groove. 300 dead Osama meds produce intelligent ghost sex with an epileptic shark. Advanced robots excel at running simulations of a complex future scenario where the entire universe is consumed and transformed into a massive bunny discarding its animated model and shitting jellybeans. See, a sneaky triumph that shares my spiritual rash.
Vague ace cunt nail new to the library. Dehydrating a virus-crazed God rushes blowout life to the inspired found-object. Basketball-white death, what it's scabbed of. Donut snot action figures shopping and clubbing.
SEX-ATTACK SUSPICIOUS CACKLING GAS
I'm alive to ponder crayfish, talking crayfish, clawing at a moonwalking fart. Walls grow meanderings and sabbaths. Knock knocks the bile full of magic.
Acrid smelling plumes of I can't lose my job, I need my job.