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.
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.
