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Doom Pee // Tyson Bley

April 26, 2014


After saying Greetings, condom forgers of Earth,
the reptilian visitors observe how nicely my handicap is thickening inside the cartoon rift –
the bobble-brick continuum drenched in the fleeting self-consciousness of a whale,
to which teenage lawn rangers symbolically rip segways, in lawns.
Anything distant looks like a gnomish beer can.
Mosaic aliens crank grandma’s jam handles ivory
in that pot of sweet stewing bitcoins you’ll find at the end of the bitchin’ rainbow
that only blazes, diagonally (i.e. the bitchin’ rainbow does), in a saint’s ghastly golf visor.
“Enemy blimp, cease your Mentos!”
Teabag scrotal meat is ready for human trials. I already boil mine in pure garden condensation.
No more vulgar sheep on potent drugs. Soda tooth bathing gracefully
like an unwell banana, hangman-mixed, in the

mathematical prophylactic. 

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