The mask-water sniffs out the oxygen guitar dust.
Let’s trim the magical white-cells
and watch them evolve into pennies.
Words rot, vocabulary limited.
My spirit vomits the harvest fields,
the best dancers in the world, all in the name of war.
My soul is made of pleather
the window in my subconscious drips film rolls.
A sharp rubber reality
a pale shadowy ant screaming,
The wise theatrical monkey’s
stretched the rainbows skull.
The glowing cavities
the pink rats foaming muscles.
Place one finger on your forehead
press hard enough, its desperation #1.
The blind wolf drank the automatic vision.
The phantom mocks its own existence.
Wash away the universe pupil,
without your jigsaw stratagem;
I might never get the last laugh.
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