AS WE SPEAK PINK IS PISSING IN THE MOUTH OF TYRANNY

 

 

Balloons fall faster through the nipples as helium howls in ecstasy. Warm is the temperature of a zipper pinned to a sheep’s skull skewered in heaven. Reality is tyranny. The triumph of nonsense is the lemonade born from a knife dreaming of Denmark. For this reason particles should be sprinkled over every syllable soluble in a book of soap. Violins should be fondled like an octopus teasing tedium, or a grizzly bear climbing a clitoris through Texas. Imagination is averred by a totem scream in an outlet fizzing minions. Bill Murray currently lives in a teepee pressed beneath my pillow. At night he hunts gravity with a gravy musket, which fires like the hiss and moan of worms guzzling garlic. When Mother May I copulates grapes in the faucet we are beveled back to a dream of pink by words raised in autumnal mustard. Incidentally, the sky is now leaking tapioca sonnets and rabbits are wincing mist. Take this flower made of Mars and lavish your mother in the calculus of a kettledrum drooling. Finger the freaksky or die trying. All you need is an orgasm of peacocks to ply chaos from a soliloquy of sparks.