“i’d just wait and know that it will happen,” she said. guess she read the secret. mindwaves and all that, bringing you what you are focused on.
our angels are all broken. lies disguised by grace, great beauty. get close and you could be burned. better to fly high and get your wings melted like ol’ fuckface than cower in the dirt.
time, the great pretender, root up-ender. if you were a plant and you sang, what would your song be? anyone can judge, but who really knows what it feels like to really feel something. punch a 2 on the punching machine.
“death death death,” they screamed/chanted, enchanted. they were known as the last lost girls. lived alone on a island, never bothered by the eyes of men. they danced naked in the forest, fields and ocean.
they roasted a boar with an orange in its mouth. it was most windy down south. robot cheetahs ran wild, snatching up rabbits in their jaws.
time was a concept they didn’t believe in. mama old guinea shook palm fronds over the bonfire. smoke swayed under harvest moon.
milk was always alone but he wasn’t exactly lonely. there was a peaceful solitude to it- to not be bothered by other people. sometimes he’d wonder what things would be like otherwise though, abortion to have a wife or child.
the night before, at a bar, he said hi to a guy he knew. the guy thought he was someone else, a man in afghanistan. milk just acted like he was. if the person couldn’t be bothered to realize it was him, why should he tell him otherwise. the guy had painted him before; it wasn’t like he was some stranger.
at a club, he saw a gorgeous girl he had dated once. he didn’t talk to her, she might not have even seen him. she meant something once, three months ago, but then she became nothing.
lady skullfucker said kanye sucks dick. and jude law’s one of the most gorgeous guys on the planet. tabitha was smoking a j with her. weed aroma wafted in the air, illness combichrist playing in the bg.
computer broke n deleted. mystery words, search beauty unheard. i only like the most gorgeous things. living a ghetto/glorious lifestyle. pulling heartstrings.
they drove through rainy streets in the deathmobile, order
never knowing when it would randomly stop or start to downpour again. she held a tiny shiny scythe in her hand. her eyes blinked like glowbugs, apocalypso suns.
“don’t do that. now-a-days chicks like money and big dicks,” molly sharpened her knife. she was smoking an e-cigarette and staring at the stars.
cool under the death lights, she smiled. hearts under december, a freight liner whistle blows. wisps of tenderness, spectral machine memories.
“we’re living in the dying age,” she whispered. golden eyes seemed to have cracks inside. “i can’t love; i don’t love anything, not even myself.”
we walked down the red hallway, hand-in-hand. the floor was lined with velvet. there were antlers growing through the walls. an ancient photograph depicted a skull with a crown of thorns and a rose between its teeth.
a dead frog sat to my left while to my right, in a cool blue pool, floated a gorgeous nude woman. luxuriant hair fell down her shoulders. “these are the things dreams are made of,” spoke the frog. slime spilled out of his mouth.
“we’re now entering the empty zone, ampoule ” the synthetic flight attendant intoned. she wore a tiny blue paper hat above red hair. her eyes were bullets, medical seeing through all they surveyed.
yellow and red lizards slithered up the casita’s walls. black cat with orange eyes watched lazily atop a garbage can. cacti stood lonely in the desert.
his ring finger had three parallel lines on it: a cut from trying to open a beer bottle with a lighter. he told her he didn’t know that trick. the ocean’s waves were choppy and thus they didn’t stay long.
estrella corazon polished her gun tenderly. “amor” was etched on the right side. she lived in the city of santa diablo.
skeletons of monkeys traipsed through smoky streets. a mime on a twenty-foot unicycle rode by, clinic
grinning maniacally. a sugar glider swooped down, landing on a bonsai tree.
“PsychoCop for Sheriff,” the sign said. A huge billboard towered above it: “HELL IS REAL. (insert cliche Bible verse).” sun reflected off waves like knives.
“i’m a machine,” she swallowed beck’s beer. the curve of her waist was amazing. “you like me because of my waist to hip ratio,” she intoned, “i was built for ******.”
junk, trash, kill and skullz rolled in a gang. they smoked crack in black alleys. ochre sun burned above garbage city. castle grisskull loomed like an ancient overseer.