How the Creative Killjoy Sleeps at Night

We talk

2 our BFFFFFs over

and over

blue sonic pixel pads, cursors cursory whizzing thumbs

screening past reality’s lakeshores and jut sideways with the drunken

twisted creep of 40 year old Hoosier

sex offender. Fuckspinning

around event horizons, our last memories

K-hole from what never was and what

never will be. Only to fade from

buttons to


scrotums, tongue first and back again to the

rubber punch. Salty and greasy.

Maybe the mall in be

tween. and a diet coke to wash it all down.


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