My beauty has a Black Friday velocity. She replaces the pool water with pee. My beauty has the attributes of the Number 8, she made a temple out of tires for the Cat Goddess, for men and women who dance like birds and salmon herds, her red pyramids name the wind like a radio the South West Wind, The Maltese Falcon and Farewell, My Lovely. My email account had a dark and twisted fantasy about Walmart and sableye, antelope goggles, a helicopter, herbicide, a diary mask ammo kit. The moon is enough for us in Spanish, even when death goes undetected by Beauticontrol™. If you look up tonight, the stars have no makeup. Make up some statistics about them on the spot. His everythings were shallow, not a cough in a carload. Start a sentence with “a religion of doors”. But there were shy violets, birds – skylit, scarlet, nautical twilight, small wars smuggled like smart chargers, it’s so beautiful there, trees mistaken for transitional fossils and the trout are great. . .
Zeitgeist Spam: In the House of the Hangman 1749.