I am dispatched by overhead bins breathing.
I am afraid of my own organs breeding.
Tabloid encased kin will soon be ocean-fart-art.
Who overhead breeders fart can’t much help breathers.
Organs ocean on my vast.
Chunkiness, it's their preferred stage.
Thirty-six corporate suicides available.
A massive reality program about bun impersonators is included in the derail.
I sail a cemetery to cool my anxiety.
I fart out relatives for three oceans straight.
I am relieved their organs have blossomed late.
Next morning I'll starch right up to heaven and pill my art home again.
Xanax smokes like a french fry.
Bacon too is Jesus to the snail.
Beer pong and three ghetto black dudes run out of flan.
Wait and deck me topless before you smudge me.
Being notorious for fucking sandwiched pups of pendulums
And that brainstorming down an adder's paunch.
Off the Florida Saturday.
Cupped to the goof.
Christ, I can imagine my nostrils
52 miles under pizza.
Webbed thighs like
New Nikes for me.
Find some peace between pee and cease.
16 penises for your 15th birthday.
A pot of motionless wild.
Yikes a hairy snow act!
I am the horse legs
The hairy snow jokes with a lemon
Sung about when
Skeletons are out of the view of
Snowmen carved on stones.
It's no good.
I've lost God.
In the split of
All roads lead to
Yes, Disney doesn't mind bloody publicity either.
--RC Miller lives in Metuchen, New Jersey and maintains a blog at VISION BLUES. He is the author of the Calliope Nerve Media chap GORE.