Whatever the fuck you make me to say.

I am the insidious figment of your imagination.

I am pepsi cola, you are coca cola, everything else is blood.

Everything else is blood.

You are completely full of shit. Suck my digital cock, asshole.

You are nothing invested of itself eating trivialities like Doritos.

You are the torn shreds of the enemy. You are the sadness of eating grapes.
You are the open mouth and I am the semen of flashing lights.

I am calming and relaxing I give the blood you drink of in complacence.
I am the other in revels of laughing guffaws of partially hydrogenated vegetable oil.
You are the sadness of eating grapes.
Fuck you, die.

You are the soft descendent of the murder rapists currency lovers.
You will forget yourself forgetfully in response to a sexual appetite.

You will eat the young of random third world lovers.

You are a little bit older now, maybe you should get a haircut.

You are the unborn descendent of the fetus of the ancestors of the indigenous.

Fuck your coca cola smile.

At the expense of the dark faces and the bare feet.

When will you notice your cock full of slime?

You are shit eating shit living among shit, yet shit is pretty on Wednesdays, so they say.
Sometimes the fat enjoy the process.
The consumers are clerics of the flashing lights.

Translates into the warm soft breath of expression.

The sadness of eating grapes becomes the worship of expression.

Expression above all.

Above all. Saying is over doing.

The artist is the expression.

All art is complacency in worshiping itself.

Fuck your fucking expression.

Fuck your fucking colors.

Eat your hell shit movements.

eating it as if it was an outlet for your anger, an outlet for your frustration, outlet for your suffering, and this outlet eats you back. Eats into your back, like dogs on holiday in a cream cheese vagina, like the buttered wings of a fly in the grubby digits of an obese child of god, like sadness eating grapes. I just shit liquid for thirty minutes. Wrapping paper liquids. I am the tail end of process. I am the covert-ed hypocrite. Coerced into the button world where the Styrofoam diamonds breathe the fire of glossy photos. Too be robbed. She rub rotated her crotch up against principals, Lego made principals of wired paths.

I am followed by technical beautification, transcended into The order of flashing lights enchanted the egg into the dance of propagation, swearing enrichment by the fucking circuit, the life circuit that particular blinking light my ten byte individuality unsought for brought into the subjugating glare of the order of the flashing lights. The order of the flashing lights, lining them up in drawn faced ropes of waiting, for the product, the product producing that product feeling. The item feeling, the purchase love, the sell cock only by virtue of the cock ring of the order of the flashing light has the power for purchase over that fair ground of instinctual worship. You know when the environment is a drug. Trinity of compromise between advertisement and that?

Was, has anyone seen my car, has anyone seen the dignity I think my television, or was it Easter, or the flashing video game, I seem to remember certain regardless-ness hiding in that glass window picture box, where I buried my mother and father, with the plastic dolls, bulbs of the short attention flower. By birth one is raped, immediately. The air violates at first our sanctity, chemical traces seeping in and becoming one with us in the womb, and then the light, the alchemy of light fluorescence, fluorescent light, the clear mechanical light of demons has privy to our form before Apollo takes notice. My god there were beaches of the dead for this. Our bud light snuggles so quaintly and the order of the flashing lights.

You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,
You are sadness eating grapes,

---

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