Your boy is electrolux woozy, far too faded to keep static. Synthetic bass nudges sixty-six trillion bleeping tasks blotted. Neon grafts scintillate in glitches, blasphemy whirs on the mainline deserted. Red Alertness beady-eyed for dap sinister, rituals muted, falsehoods ricocheting every which way but …wow ya living? Wizened scriptures hum dreary yet glossy, blades steal on persuasion if gleaming. The true and living 40 Below trooper zig-zags in framed claridad slumber, caldera wakefulness.
Blemished Stax streaked gleefully across the fader. On a mission for the perfect breeze to strike the temple walls and tweak the lord bomb as hell. Nothing can save you. Liberty Plaza percolates with flim-flamming journeymen who finagled dime shape-ups in the days of trolley car brothels. Try to babble a mouthful of squid and you wonâ€™t make it past the fourth story. Catfish sammiches deluge styrofoam polymers with sinkered Christ-blood. Plaintains and porgies defy pronunciation on these beanpie corners, akh.
Muhammad Speaks sheist. Jesus Christo rock ’em sock ’em robots you to the death. I-Self manifests todayâ€™s degree and swigs tonic. Urchins stumble on this intersection just to meet a trident head-on. Barbicide Malt Brew presents: tongue-kissing barracudas entombed in the ‘Lo Down lofts, lamping like they invented the puffy comb. The Jet centerfold from â€™84 is crinkly, sun-parched, just as Ricky D. warned.
Dreams of digging out that freak nasty Wanda from the Absecon Avenue Co-Ops. Calvin Cooler kinkytwists, bedroom eyes glaring like an aviatrix. Mona Lisa shotgun in Imhotepâ€™s terra cotta Benz-o. Sugar Hill nails six oâ€™clock sharp, magnetic Boone’s Farm sweatsuit rapturous. Prays for a plush minaret crib with an Oxford fridge housing juicy scrimps and bowls of Sangria, armadas of manna reverse dunked.
Look at all these crab-asses. Merchant mariners stoop low, anchors and albatrosses hoisted on their scrawny necks. Trafficking volcanic rock out of coral duffle bags. Can’t magmatize me. Blackberry molasses country conkinâ€™ Saturday washed away, surf n’ turf talk devouring everything around me. Luther Van Muzak oozing rudely from a downtrodden JVC jooked from a Pentecostal basement prior to the great flood. The hidden price of that sweet power-u is steep so the crescent moon will have to do for now. Fresh for 7777 A.D. , you suckas. — Thun