Sublunary lunacy running on a system punitive with penal system in its’ roots penile pertaining to pituitary activation
Forcing individuals to renew their population to fund more pagodas keeping them purgent, perpetuating to frequent perpetrators for the favoured fervent bare metal servant

Freud-approved foetally positioned, familiarly natured white page, even you ain’t sui generis in any word poor snowflake, you too were manufactured and tri-process conditioned
Seeing is believing except when you don’t sieve the facts before letting them conceive for trial division is far too naive in this silicon racked age of blonde ambition

With dried up tonicity, whoring our eyes out to afford electricity is an easy decision

Believe the Papal preying like a mantis getting his head eaten by a hungry partner may be slightly absurd and above to beyond we should all-out alight
While high on our supply all night with 5HT lines long, at least to our BTE, singing that song, the one with ABCs that make the soup served to Peanut Doublebrain for supper at night

A guy totally insane with no corpus callosum membrane to stop his epileptic shocks brought on by bright lights and hypercolour jocks; it’s pure plight.

Strewn amongst sticky socks next to a box of torn tissues and diaries full of dates and issues of pubescent protrusions, he is a peanut and full of illusions
Dumbed down hashed, obscured, pickled and salted after being done for, on the phone he can discuss your perfect solution

BASE jumping for L-DOPA and whining far cries of a bill that’s called SOPA in a torrent of sunstroked acquisitions seen by the oracle’s money, trying to run essentials by running them through wine, a sardine that sleeps happily in a can, conductively rusty and topped up in brine

Oh man…what the fuck is that which sits in your spine? Gobstopping Packet internet gropin’ all day, retouching ones and zeroes of hot ladies all night, living in a tick tok’in faery eared Tolkien of a joke in my sight

A modern day whiff of the haze airborne, maybe of life, a gassed out environment like a fish with his airstone, typing at his keyboard and bubbling away at his base
Through a very Graphical User Interface, gratuitously blinding brightly your face, hiding both the man and the the curtain, letting you know where you should be in your place

Our dear User, subliminal fantasies only cost a dime to voyeur, please click through – I promise reality’s gonna be oh totes, sublime.

If work is the curse of the drinking class, a wildman called Wilde you may say, Bastard Operators from Hell are Birds of a Feather, plucked from a ferocious map on the Farcity over there, all here for you, on the other side of the telephone.

I promise we will make it all better.