Tuesday, April 14, 2009

While I eat, I think of you

Crazy wormeaters in rectangular coordinates eat by the crystalline dispensers of death. They douse the squirmers in pig’s blood—or that is how it appears—and stab with distustingly tinged quadblades of gray metal in order to deceitfully drop it dangling and undeserving into each undissenting mouth, dank and warm finally inside while the outside is yet a dark December. The inveterate invertebrate droops down slithering into esophageal wonder to dethrone the daemonic determinations of an unkind machinehead.

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