Saturday, March 26, 2011

text || Edward Nichols


The neurotic frequecy machines'golden turned therail way of interdimensional inversion catches the melting time pieces at a subconsciousdose of liberalgolden crystals,their a fiery purple catching aride on the truancy expression by calculating the income as outgoing revisions. The subconscious constipation was given an archetypical laxative.

Baptismal fires were ultamitely abysmal.Tetrahelio punch fire blew flagrantly through the constant inverted space-Time warp.
Blooming idiots(well watered of course).The world is not a whole,but a unified singularity.A positive method of recompence is to never pay it back.That's what we have on the product ratio demand as a radio emits frequencies.

In other words, a Glithysheen blenish on otherwise pertnant inflammation. I've a dollar on the whig side that says nothing is something indeed. Ingest the spiraling darkness in a tons deaf baby's ear and the fragments of spring spring forth in a ninety-to-nothing subzero glacial montage. A lyrical testimony to the Christian ethic, brave soldiers have marred forth, there rotting ideas having the stipend of a bucketful of idiocy. A freeload of reality is as about as close as I want to get to it. SO, jargan the hiabiscus with profanity and swear like a sailor. I jeopardize the garbled meanderings of the word, summoning forth intelligent demons to challenge the whole mess. Brash are the Gallygarths who raid the pantries of disbelief.

So, the torque of the suspended space-warp released tiny spatial frequencies; drawn to Dr. Dents Orgone Box. Dr. Dent, feeling thereby mightily energized had a spontaneous orgasm of such magnitude that a God was formed. He arose and carried Dr. Dent through a black hole, once crossed, they were in all eleven dimensions, he composed a poem: I'm addicted to your complication, I'm shut-up in your institutions, I demand an explanation, I don't believe in your constellations, I suffer from your constant aggravation, I will be your insubordinate instigation.

Seemly I am not what I am, luttressing the logarhythm of injustice, as the briar patch of relief. Socialogical manifestations alot their circuits down a path of nervous neurons of the consciousness probe the entity as a for-it-self, not for the object as other, but as the for-it-self in the others dominion. I the other, the other eye, seeing me perceiving it. The golden Prometheus swings low on a high dive.

The interested parties transcended the triple view and reinverted the soul to capitalation inversion.

No comments:

Post a Comment