shut your face Francis.

[veritas]

I love the way these pants fit. Do ants shit? I’m tantric. I want minds to stretch like spandex on Danzig, I plan big. Wig out, wig in, pig out, Pigskin. It’s the season for leaving it all on the field. Never yield or wield the sword of omens in bad faith. Let us see your mad face. Your tongue is white, it’s a bad taste. Skype with ABBA’s band mates, about interracial Klan dates, or stock tips, or landscapes….Lunar. Suit up the losers, soothers, suitors, and users, with Dr. Seuss’s maneuvers. I want particles to participate in the molecular symphony. I want gravity to stop dancing and blame it on an old sports injury. Blissfully expel warm urine on the cold summer snow. Storms purr like an old transistor radio, the Rotted out lukewarm use car salesmen souls in a jar. Make a cameo as a extra in your dream’s barrio dress as super Mario screaming “you got the juice now kid, so we know you’ll go far!” shut your face Francis, no one asked you. Glue tongues to cows so you can taste what beef is. Gaffled your last marbles, so now you know what a thief is, pass the peace pipe, so now you know who the chief is. No one thinks anymore. People think they are thinking, they aint. EXCELSIOR! You catch that bitch winking, but forgot to be a saint. Too much lsd, too much desert, we watched the psychopathic tire faint. Only to rise again from voodoo and who do you get use to the fastest when your ego is tickled? I love all my irony pickled. With a light feta drizzled. Your mind is merely the home of multiple demons, you are not creative. Step into the light and get eradicated. Goldfish Olympics. Toonsis drives you senseless.