Think with eyes for blinkers

Fatuous mouths of invisipixels are blistering the cloud-like vagaries of language, even when frostbitten owls facebook-like the stars, for a dark recharge of antisocial camaraderie, this sacrificial hot dog I give up to God is itself an undead body part of the Word.

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But butts are colorblind stoplight blue with butterfly vision balloons, never is not real, nor is real, real! Neither is unreal a good trip, as it negates what is not what it is.

Envision a plum, made of words, dry or juicy words, sweet and then tart words, that make the high-jaw muscles of your heart spasm with caged elephant fragility: a sour RX that makes you rage with twerking insecurity at the unattainable fragrant concrete ghost of a solstice-ripe round nectar-filled humanoid fruit.

Your want consumes you; fuller than full its roundness fills you out of yourself and into its wish: the taste of falling into the sleepy soil. In the library of dirt we can translate ourselves (from luscious purpleheart) into branching veins of hardened air; gently we will break up the happy negations of sky into negative space selfies, and reaching out across the cliffs of my skin, with quintuple petaled full circle rainbow, I touch life itself.