If you add -uini to my favorite murder weapon it becomes an italian dish. Machetteuini~!

[BWHAHA]

w.e just read -_____-

Interplanetary takeover. This is phase transitory : Snake Cobra
Magnify the absent void. But I’m asking more; for you to stay covert.
A thousand flames. No alibi. Fragmentary blaze smolders
I face statutory rape charges, for just acting strange, I make noises.
The masqueraded grave swordsmen. Analyzing cloudy days to stay home.
In my lavatory I lay off, examine the way I make boners. Canonized.
Then act as if my stiffies' Cassius Clay. When I jab in place, your dame.
"Hey, he has a blade. And in his grasp, he has her hair. He’s crazed. Over"
Some call me a coward, cause I close my eyes when I stuck this butterfly knife
Into your tower. I’m energized more. And the shower of blood. Gives me power.
Cause they say your senses flourish mature, when you deprive one of yours.
It’s like the holiest war, when I devour. The side. That supports, your spinal accord.
I can only surmise you wouldn’t survive based on encounters.
Surprise you with flowers. Then deflower you as a surprise. Then you die.
Lead the police, on a brief chase. In my boxers.
Hi-jack the helicopter. While heaving a briefcase.
Read the cease & desist. Off the teleprompter.
Text centered, to me I cant believe! They told me!
To “not do it again” in red letters.
Mortal combat, with a moral contrast. I’m sorta aroused, you THINK you could lay a finger on me.
I’ll write circles around you. Literally using figures of speech.
Til’ my pencil is purple. And black and blue. And it hurts your profound muse.
But it’s back to square one, when I triangulate your position
I innately make the volition. The brush-strokes paint the vague illustration.
Feel alive. Ejaculate ammunition. I’m anal.
Hunched-over with my scope. The initial, gay stimulation.
I mean gay as in happy. I grin at the bloodshed.
Pick-up full of punks’ heads. But they stay in the cabby.
Vonnegut. My zen is a monument. The hot ink that discharges
Is like lava melting. It’s off the spittle. My carpal skips. It’s Armageddon.
The arsonist. My blood boils so hot, I need a closed-circuit turbulent.
On the inside of my arms, there is a tourniquet where my veins weld karma rips.
I could predict verbally what you thought to think.
Sketch/draw your in-door coordinates just by rearranging jigsaw portion grids.
Play pinball with your organs. And organize a circus for all the kids.
I’m this close to going haywire. THIS close to an argument.
Pen doctor. With a pen doctorate. Making sick calls to the journalist.
Withdrawn. And I’m awkward. Hocking up spitballs to hit all six of your chakra blips.
Playing pingpong in the garden, in the fifth floor of my parliament.
I’m a mixed cross, from a novelist, and the sixth boss from Mortal Kombat in Tournament.
Alone in my vortex, I script warble vomit. Warped in formal conscious.
I’m alone, and going forwards, backwhÆrd we started.