tonight, word has spread like a viral virgin heard things ringing in the head...the outrageous over-the-edge, and yet the vomit crisps my lip with a choppy recovery... the priests in shadows wail with abandon into a night's eye, the moon with a drifting feel staring vacant pretty down upon me, and then the race is back on for the martial missionary position one begins to use to take things back... the defensive posture must be ignored!!! overripe with a stench of dismay, and the day has come, how does one overcome this fecal exit?... the forcing of vile ducts deep down, buried somewhere beyond the backyard, and where are my hands going for me?... feeling shaded by an atrocious cloud with spiky lightning from the feet, the likenesses of drops maybe, but today the dread of the weight of the dead things that crawl around in my head are never left dormant for long... maybe the lobotomy will do the trick, but perhaps drastic measures are that sick, cutting the sack for the prick... am I wondering what it is to be the offensive thief, with what spastic arguments have I been judged, but understanding nothing by myself or with another... the page ripples with my art-rocious wank Here now before you... the chores of Pluto...
