mark.atkins1@nhs.net

(shipping) show all


A sun, like blood to parasitic entities, turning people into shit. Shipped in catnip for the ocelot, sand is the acrid oil burning whole in the gape of humanity. Scant retention of dignity. The wheeled usually abhorent, not so, pink pom poms where least expected. Katabolism of the integrated, degeneration to the lowest common. Face South and turn into gold; face gold and turn into stone. Some seemingly profound gesture hollow at the centre, easter egg hatches and prejaculates an imbecile conception. Best rib forward, formerly rented with good intention, grace saver. The remainder could as well be dusted excrement hydrated with urine of a god. Cellular nucleus meltdown eroding separation of distinction, self times by self debased to a singular misleading scourge. Some escape to protest but don't question the questions. Back to the spherical soul snatcher that inadvertently stalks the material world. Sailors of warships spitting into the wind, wasted abdomen vibrating with the girth of a flyback transformer.

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3301 unmanageable