List of things that are running through my mind:
Tube tops. Razor wire. Enslaved androids. The color of poop. Whiny. Thrombosis. Calligraphy. Butter-butt. Flaming lipocracy. Jugular. Chain-smoking. Angel-hair pasta. Rivets. Bucket seats. Ten-cent cigar. Rhomboid. Catharsis. Elegant. Destructo. Putt-putt. Lamebrain. Ratuuvara. Lymph. Colloidal suspension. Markety. Poodlepoodlepoodle. Noob. Grumpy. Node control. Hairy mama. Blastocyst. Freak. Comfortable poundage. Eclectic determinism. Raffle. Candida. Copper. Rutabaga. Cancel. Censer sensor.
Pleasure me with your oaty musk, I reel in your divisiveness. The flare of the newborn trilogy escapes frustration, endochronic in it's sublime resplendence, driving the wheels of diversity. I am ensconced, wounded, geriatric to you, fondled of all of my posessions, for without you there is nothing except guilt.
I tumble like a rumbleweed, empty streets flavored like sand-toads in a marsh, dry as dusk in a sleepy little ghost town. Your flavor rests on the tip of my mind like an iceberg melting into cool rivulets of flavor, depressing, rejoicing, following the biscuits like tea for scones. Cream, smooth and silky.
Yet I hear you scream all the lyrics of songs yet unsung, pain and humiliation, caverns of darkness exploding into a thousand eggshells of delicate thought, remembrance of dreams shuttered in the wind.
Retract. Fear. Pain. Desolation. Fire, cold, hate burns within you. I run but I cannot hide, and you consume me, another bolt for your rifle, another notch on your gun. Touched.
You eat my head. I am a part of you now.
So is this what lunacy tastes like?