W H O L L Y T E X T S

 

BUZZ

   Tight above my head cornea light beams poop. Some on the wall.
I urinated outward/like grass on a rock. A jagged peace to die.
A Martian would simply wonder...begotten glory of girly jeans.
And punks canon, fuck! We give samba-samba telepathy tenses.
The fiend in Oakland toked, fantasy boxes, doomsday conformity.
Searched with insurance the pound of one-hundred dead tunes.
Aided by the automatic legion of doomed psychics, she sucked dry.
We should all go down to Bible-Junk and play football for the cow,
around the gold in the whole she-bang, my sex in matter ostensive
is uncomplicated(onan-spurt trying). To grasp the mystery, I turn myself off and stand there in my mind's apartment. Fuck the cats.
They ask why. Death ain't too real to me, but I sure am aware of it.
Dollars, my dear. I remember my thoughts from December 10th, 1953!
A RACE OF MYSTIC FLEAS READS YOUR LIPS, ALL SCREAMING DAY!

about | design | www.malok.org

©2012