W H O L L Y T E X T S

 

THREE MILLION DEGREES OF UNCLE GOD-SIN

   My happy virus dance of September 18th, a handful of premature
icons and American-Nazi electrons, hedda-hi! Hedda-hi! Nipple or the button? A bushy agenda to ban any divergent blip on the horizon---
ideal, we all go to the college football halftime and pledge ourselves silly/an elephant shits on the fifty yard embolism. Two hundred years of Solo-gu-Gushes! My hands are steady. My nerves are shot.
In the Tower of Tens The wilds of non-existence joggin' memories of vast sterility, destruction of fat muscle, a post-evolutionary development. Hedda-Hi! Buddha at hot-ID.
                                       Buddha at oto-ID.
                                 The toe-way ode be HIM!
                                   Mode at Buddha-ID!
CHARLES BRONSON AND MY SHRINK HAVE LEFT THE POSSIBLE CUBE.

 

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