Friday, November 4, 2011

Mobile Of Syringes:
The chains are pulled through holes in their wrists, tow truck hooks dangling from their cuffs. Slug mold furrows like a field of pine neeldes, halting acid sentences. TV cables braided into their muscles, amphibian-throated and ectopic in the red chairs. Fiber glass grows in moon bleached attics, opening fight minds to their oblivious chacanery. Settling debts through the eerie cosmos of clarity, forced to endure the atmosphere's philmic incisions that make the skeleton known. We are the excrement of all the burrows. At the neck we idle like baby teeth, so strike your air-bravado outside the fictiondrome and see where your pure bloods will lie. Once the cage and rack factor into your empty malice, my eternal quiet will be welcome on your behalf.

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