Combatwoundedveteran 15 Minutes On A Forklift
Constructing drag strip coffins for unravel civilians.
Whirling around, acting handless, beating on skulls for
abbreviation. We are translated from the monaural sounds
and turn on in sparks, to build our own lightning and
punctuate the old plastic way. Complaining heads are
shorting out, spilling vomit and stopping reproduction
naked fumbling in the dark, painted silver for
reflection. We are translated into pixels, digitized for
champion knitters. Fawning f..cking idiots over the
monaural sound. You got your finger in the gushing hole
of the bad years, it's getting everywhere and you're
painting pictures with the blood. Gross.
