blackleathergod

Trash walked through the hallway of the astral temple, online a pyramid in the scorching desert. The Emos were trying to break the door down again. He had a vision of Liz’s face floating above him. Her blond hair blew back in ringlets like starshine.

“I LOVE, I LOVE, I LOVE,” the computer was broken.
Mary watched the HypnoVision, try
it carried weary soldiers into her brain. They sipped champagne below arid valleys; buzzards bleating like electric sheep. The sun wove in lazy currents, carried by the wind.
Lady Scarlust ate diamond dust with Funfetti cake. The frosting was pink, like a newborn throwing a fit. The chandeliers had ears and something in the fluorescent lights swirled like liquid lightning.
Jack Scanlon danced in his striped suit, looking like an Egyptian prince. Flowers fell from the sky in pastel colors. Nobody knew where they came from.
Yuna played Uno beside the bar. Jack Black ate bacon, waffles and chicken. Tina was taught it mattered not what one said.

Luke Lugh and Paris Pele were so passionate about their ideals that they argued often. They didn’t normally fight with anyone, approved
but when they got together, page
tempers flared. They bickered about guns, literature, life, love, music and more.

Paris was the best cook Luke knew, besides his mother. She created sumptous meals like salmon, hummus and pita chips. Pear halves stuffed with cheese, luscious lasagne, grilled chicken topped with tomatoes and mozzarella. Living lettuce and quiches packed with spinach, carrots and other delicious vegetables. Savory soup made with cream, wild rice and more.

She lived alone by the bay in a mansion meant for many people. Its huge windows overlooked the waves, slivers of light and color dancing. When the sun rose and set, the brightest golds, pinks and purples filled the house. They both played pool terribly, laughing at each other’s poor shots as exotic music pulsed.

They drank wine and beer copiously, broke bread dipped in olive oil and whispered secrets late at night. His long fingers roamed her wavy hair as they lay together on a leather couch. When they cuddled, their bodies fit together like exquisite puzzle pieces.

Trash walked through the hallway of the astral temple, online a pyramid in the scorching desert. The Emos were trying to break the door down again. He had a vision of Liz’s face floating above him. Her blond hair blew back in ringlets like starshine.

“I LOVE, I LOVE, I LOVE,” the computer was broken.

Junk drank juice in the Garden of G-den. It was a bottle of Hypnolux Deluxe. It came in a large bottle with a logo of a bear’s foot on it. The shit tasted like Black Cherry Kool-Aid but it’d make you trip out in like six seconds.

The Goblin Girlz were dancing tonite. They had purple skin, clinic pierced nipples, jagged knives, prison tats and the ghettoest haircuts. Mohawks with runes carved into the skin. Those splendid bitches even had plugs in the backs of their necks. You could turn them on and stick the plug right in, making them fly high on the Extranet.

“You’re a kinky motherfucker,” Liz Lilly told Trash. Trash just slipped his fingers into her mouth. She sucked on them like dew drops. He was dressed in his blessed best- all white leather, straps and contraptions, swan’s feathers, ivory and fair weather. “Real men would kill for these thrills,” the computer spoke.

junk trudged through emo city, purchase wiping blood from his face. blood dropped down from the kids in the skyscrapers above him who were slitting their wrists and hanging their arms outside the windows. nobody knew why they did this, medical people thought it had something to do with my chemical romance radio station.

mr elektric head was staring out the skylight at the stars. they blinked like angels eating glass. footsteps under lightbulbs. steepled fingers like a prayer devoured. “i didn’t think you were heathen like me,” marigold told roland. we are ever seeking ecstasy in the eyes of a tiger tornado.

move to trash. trash and junk wander down prophetic hallways. jars of flies buzzing on shelves. if you have happy dreams, that means you are going to die. the rain woke kimba up.

they taught them to think their bodies were disgusting, sale shameful. they could never be perfect. a little more chemicals and they could be beautiful, artificial, artifice, orifices. if you used words against them, they would get angry. the then is implied. they’d use their intuitions against you, psychoanalyze, try to dissect. nurses uniforms scrubs scrye. syncretism secretism jissom, yeah they wore their influences, their loves, on their sleeves. a mirror in disrepair, following cheesecake.

thunder faeries and arachno khan archon. she buys discount eyeliner, condom aqua velvet lovegasm phantasm fantastic blood. rats and dogs and quarters. the shadow men live there. punk fiction revelation obsessed with retaliation, advice nothing much changes. 10 years, 7 year bitch playing on tha radio. sharon thinks she’s so special with her broken wings. apelover. grape kool-aid glass.

junk trudged through emo city, purchase wiping blood from his face. blood dropped down from the kids in the skyscrapers above him who were slitting their wrists and hanging their arms outside the windows. nobody knew why they did this, medical people thought it had something to do with my chemical romance radio station.

mr elektric head was staring out the skylight at the stars. they blinked like angels eating glass. footsteps under lightbulbs. steepled fingers like a prayer devoured. “i didn’t think you were heathen like me,” marigold told roland. we are ever seeking ecstasy in the eyes of a tiger tornado.

move to trash. trash and junk wander down prophetic hallways. jars of flies buzzing on shelves. if you have happy dreams, that means you are going to die. the rain woke kimba up.
kids in the cold never do what they are told- the radio played waylaid tunes with mystic runes. a hologram projected a conical picture of the band. the lead singer was the wackest wizard you ever saw. plastic skeleton bones hung around his neck, clinic
spinning red pentagrams on the dancefloor, click
roulette wheel eyes, boney thighs.

“prick a star from the sky and feed it to me,” she desired. the taste of a star was searing cold. the petite prince floated away.

man with phone strapped to his side, viagra approved playing porno for all to see. low grade stuff too. i could find better in about 5 seconds.

she looked like a mop with a skirt on, salve white hair (bleached blond?), black skirt, garters, skinny ass kept hanging out.

bass player wore pj bottoms. questionably dyke chick with blond hair, the bottom black so it looked like shadows, wide ass. band playing reminded me of mudhoney, which doesn’t mean they sounded like mudhoney.

angelfucker rode to tin can alley on a unihorn, sickness porno jackzon. he had a long, white mane. while they were riding, porno told her, “the guys will get sick of you after they get what they want.” porno’s eyes were red like an albino’s.

dr. dumb was cutting again. he was emo, guyliner and manscaped. he had an addiction to popular fiction. reality tv emptied the levees. “it’s all about choice,” jack joyce told him. he has his psychiatrist. they believed in the power of the mind.

“when you wish upon a burning car, spin three times around and kiss the ground,” domina sang. she spit in her hand and mixed it with mud. guttural sounds came from her throat and the mud mixture became a baby homunculus. “welcome to the underground,” she kissed its tiny head.

daddy’s little angel was a mechanical beast. her hair was like silver rain. when she drank from the little vial, stuff her perception switched. colors changed, traumatologist inverted. black skies became white.

they were cubist treasures; stained glass pasts remembered in their own ways. she thought she could find the future if she only kept digging. there was a blue box in the dirt, tiny like a chinese lantern.

her eyes were playing winamps visualizations again. wires came from her neck and into her ears, playing music no one else could hear.
the slaves toiled in machine valley, visit this
sweat dripping down chrome. rust marks rent grooves between chiseled torsos. a midnight obelisk floated above them, red rays pulsing over the workers.

junk was being whipped by the mantis men again. he refused to follow orders. the grizzled nuns prayed above them. black plastic beads twined in their hands. flies flitted between their feet. they grimaced with yellowy teeth.

grimace was graced with jaundice. just another fast food fiction. they layed him out in his coffin, coughing. the dragon peered down at him and grinned. dinner was served and nothing but low quality meat was deserved.
angel brain rot, link
so hot, party party noize,
all we want is (connexion) dyslexicon ikonography
drama rama ramses gunz, we all wasted away.