psyki bland core of molten soup, much like bubbling rubber, blissful sinking panic, steaming hot purple vapors, and frothing mud, the dirt is awake, the cabbage is alive, i scream.

happily happily blue fizzing rain, softness of trampled sunflowers gentle to the loving touch of wind that blows quietly through the treetops beyond, while seagulls soar above, chirp, chirp, chirp, tweety-tweet chirp, cascade down and flip in the meadow, flip, flip, in the swaying weeds.

not enough time, the bomb is ticking, the clock will explode, explode, explode, within you.

crazy me, lunacy entwines around reefs distant, under sea, underwater, algae, pirhanas without heads, and the overcooked spaghetti of eels chokes the starfish into the terribly black land of the senseless.

ground shakes, pounds, beats with the thrashy cadence of a machine gun, the power is here, the power is dominant, throbbing muscles and veins nearly bursting at every pulse of the roaring rhythm, overload of the surging, the surge drives us forward.

seeping down the wall into a green plastic bucket, it flows, trickling, sticky, and very moist.

taken from inside, a knowing, propelled by a baffling destiny, onward past the dark open doors, going to a place much better than this insipid dank hallway, its too crowded to breathe in here, much too crowded to breathe in here anyway.

fluttering accelerating now through the air, rotating, revolving, spinning round and round, in a somewhat irregular and thoroughly twisted ruse of an orbit, the concentric circles of the cynically inoval flight path become smaller and smaller until the limit of fluttering has been reached, then crash.

pleasant dripping drops of paint, make my day much better, draw a face around my frowning smile, put that smile in the bucket of frogs, feed the frogs to the dripping hallucinations, and drop the paint on me.

turbulent waves of human animal chaos bounce wildly to and fro on the wet dirt until from the sky falls a singular sprawling entity, once part of the great mass, now separated from its realm by a change of mind, it plummets, landing hard on the wet dirt, scrambling to arise, to live, to escape the throng, it is trampled, it yells, and stomped upon, it screams and gasps and is ground into the wet dirt, worn down to nothingness.

graze with me, now, in this curdling mass of halfway-cheese, now, feel the curdling essence of it all, dip down your head, now, and slurp, slurp, with me.

unripe eggplants swirling above me, when i dance blindly with the grey orange the orangish sky appears pale blue-green, today, though, i dance with nothing, while trotting without my good pal Bleachy Bob.

kick the blade, over and over, im tired of this futile effort of mine, i hate this wrench, i hate this blade, all of my energy drained in hope of breakthrough, its not sharp now, and for all i care it wont be sharp next time.

like a spoon, abused and beaten and mistreated and bent inside out and chewed upon with much vigor and soaked in filthy grime and broken in half and poked with a fork and shoved deep into the ear of a rabid milkcow, am i.

static electric, zing zong, maximum voltage intake valve throttles been zapped, down we go, crank up the reserve battery, wont last long, zzzt, flickering lights, sparks, smoke, electrons, random tiny explosions, zzzt, alarm buzzing, zzzt, sparks, screaming, more smoke, chaotic zong zing, down we go.

black is the color of the emotion that stabs.

planet e, where neither thorns nor thorny stems exist, where people of all ages can legally frolic in knee-deep frosting pits, where the grass is the greenest directly under the fence, where every night each of the countless tribal warriors frantically scrounges for a camel to sleep on, where corncobs are daily used as bait to catch some big tasty worms for dinner, where grapefruit is always unquestionably deemed just a mirage, where night and day are but almost borderline mythical ideas, and where 256 shades of grey is the prevalent skin color, is where i ended up, after the wild wild blizzard.
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