Mixing Pepsi, Lyle's Golden Syrup, the artist consummation summary additive devising polarising divide: column a column b, fuck me, dogmatic ballet leaning on pillar, pillar on pillar on leaning on leaning on on on, an equal number of times goes the t'chk t'chk, g'h'a-ac'ck. E-eee, downing a whole eighth, sweetener false sugar, cancer giver, loose cannon, all the niggas. Broken hot water tap, dispense custom choice, customise fluid flow, light trickles, sprinkle glisten blow.
Filament blended cock concoction tapped basin leaking full expense: Dr. Pepper; Fanta; recognisable, worn slipper of a sprinter. Arduous odorous teeth-rotter, chewing ice cubes, O'Shea Jackson. Vitriol Vicodin trademark pendant patent fifth sensory deprivation aggggg.
The beautiful openings want nothing more than to be touched and caressed by the tender hands of the frail orphan boys who live down by the stream. I can’t sit still I can’t sit still I gotta keep moving can’t stop moving. The other side is overcrowded. The dead have nowhere to go. In a library amongst corpses covered in rabbit blood we sit waiting with our mouths open. Our heads are tilted back to catch the rain and feel it drip down our throats. I’m a postmodern angel who lives inside of a deer carcass I carved it open I found it on the side of the road one Tuesday afternoon and thought that it’d make a good home poor thing must have been hit head on by some careless driver. Two more hours of waiting it feels like all I do is wait and wait and wait and wait and wait my whole existence is comprised of waiting. Years have gone by wasted I don’t even recognize the figure in the mirror anymore. Its nighttime a blue light shines through my kitchen window from outside someone is peeking in I can’t see their face I don’t want to they turn the light out after a few minutes and once again it is totally dark. Later I’m in bed trying to sleep in the absolute void of my bedroom and hear tiny noises from all over the house my eyes are wide open but I can’t see much I hear my door creek gently. are they coming in? through the shadows I can see something move it’s faint almost negligible it’s vaguely human there’s deep breathing the door is mostly open now and I can sense something’s presence. We sit there in agonizing silence no movement whatsoever then footsteps I turn on a light and there is nothing there was never anything there.
I need to stop thinking about time I need to stop thinking about time. It's some foreign abstract and it doesn't exist when I'm not thinking about it let me live let me live, time and time again I'm going to live in time to live, lively time is ticking lovely and alive, I'm not wasting time. How could I waste what is being created at every moment, I don't want to think about time behind me (behind me) I want to think about where it is coming from, it clicks thinks and chips away at me and wrinkles my forehead and balds me and when I'm all pruned up and diseased and stinking and strewn across a hospital bed with a family member or two doing crosswords next to me and waiting to go home (waiting to go home) I'll be saying "oh gods I wish I had more time I wish I had more time, won't the gods please give me more time, I do not want to die, I am lovely and alive and time is clicking thinking and chipping away at me but I do not want to stop yet" but now it is so far before then, I am so long from dying and there is so much more waiting left in my life time, and yes all the waiting is spent up waiting until that day I do die.
Trust me, in the world of cosmetic surgery you're not paying for skill, you're paying for ethical flexibility. My first operation, looking for some expansions to the dimples around my lips, upscaling them more to divots than dimples, I brought in one of those darling turn-of-last-century china dolls of little black boys, with the white teeth and little china slice of watermelon in one hand, and I tried to have a civil conversation with some I'd heard was the steady careful sculpting hand behind Cecelia Galoshka's hull enhancements and debarnacling about what he'd be able to do for me, and he told me to get out and that his girl would get in touch with a recommendation for a psychiatrist. And then, apparently, talked me up around the town because I had to go south of the border before I found someone willing to work with me. He got me as far as arranging an experimental batch of pills that would both give me a high resembling the finest 90's-grade ecstasy, and stimulate the growth of my body hair to make me look like a man in his 50's, from the 50's. But when I handed him an authentic twelfth century morning star and suggestively asked what he knew about cosmetic testicular enhancements, I was back to square one.
An unidentified arrival up there on the board other armed watchers see the diver as this heavy out of nowhere, Asian or GI--how did he get in? through the ceiling painted with lyrebirds and Egyptian vultures, arabesques of paradise with magenta wings?--hailing from up there this witness his friend it seemed seeing me who aims a standard videocam automatically hurriedly from the hip, the chest, heart, history, keeping in my pocket in reserve the world's neatest mini able to take stills too.
I wake up and feel warm and he has made a drink for me downstairs to see him smiling at me makes me feel good in the only way I know sit next to him he's warm he's soft he moves up-and-down as he breathes I can hear it slightly in his chest and he leans his head on my shoulder I turn to him and everything's happy and now he's on the phone and looking out of the window and it's the morning and neither are dressed yet yet he wears a loose shirt that hangs over the peak of his bum its tight roundness is hard and gentle and powerful and held up by soft warm legs that could helix with mine under the sheets as I feel his hot entirety against me devourable and protecting the spiking curve of his lip hooks onto mine and we both are one connected and inseparable! then I am fully taken by him and collapse beneath filled with the strong hard heat of the sun my hands pull his back and I am crushed and red boiling and damp mixing with him with each pulse of the body's full flowing beat strong and liquid poured like a slow bullet into a river his chest rises and falls rises and falls rises and falls as always but it is hard and louder melodic and singing now in chorus as we both die and are reborn.
Yesterday I was only a little boy until I met my father who was a drunkard bitch dude. In the meanwhile a bunch of hooligans decided to fucking come to my house and slash open my curtains without my permission, jesus man that's ruthless as fuck. While I was waiting for the bus to stop next to my feet of cold I stumbled upon a hidden object of unknown origin. I decided to fuck its ass with great haste and dignity. In the end, having no self-preservation left, I exited out to the street and felt homeless again. Not great, but what gives, sometimes you gotta give it to the truth spoken out loud by the robots and anons. Quality shitposts are rarely seen throughout the land of quietness and serenity. Good jokes are often misunderstood by pedophiles rampant and bonkers, without a meaningful thought man decided to come here and talk about business inquiries of young ladies. I wasn't very sure what that meant but I knew it was all about consciousness and shit like that I don't fucking know have a good night peeps.
Light heavier than shadow, streaming in line minnow. Nigress princess haunting kabuki, plagiarise non Noh play, ghost narrative dreadfully spooky. Sprinkle twinkle rich, money money bitch, superficial snitch, hawk hawk hawking yawking going squawking, takes a youngster for all his worth; spitting birth - horrible turf, spit, shit and cry every bit. Show up show out show off.
Megaphone baby boomer Gatsby poseur bloomer, bounce titty, flounce, reverse intelligence pounce; human snare trap, vaginal snap; plan B, step two: infinite anti-proximity Japanese bitch, reek of pejorative prefix, insulting her proper noun. Safe not sound.
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