POW from the future arrives from the future - philofiction by ARP
When my 2d homeless planet was a rare garnet onion in a tinted window universe I rose amongst 1001 flowers bloom. From a deep waste vat of extraneous oil and epsom salts. In far orbit we saw our planets reflection and knew it looked like a good oil company logo indeed.
at the moment of partum from a historical event akin to failed incomplete ice cube trays going back a number of generations when the octopus belonged.
i as sexually afeared of guns as per Pauline Hanson da truth (1997)
the first time i saw a gun was in 1853 calendar pot of oithear in a gravelly carpark. a sawn off double barrel rifle wanted to get his brother back from the state of a loss tennis ball of joy, unwittingly thrown out in a hoarders divine service.
I didn't want to come here in the first place. the carpark. now it's all lost tennis balls in a deluge as salve to the second time I had a gun pointed at me by a friend who thought I stole his flyspray.
the third was unlucky. I did get to take a selfie in a police wired perspex cage. walking through la place de la tapirov, a medicated zone where all the children are prodigious and live in stoa edwardian fancies with prim pomegranate samsara. the line of escape was a somatic NASA program of how to feel your death really in a nice way with blancmange donated most charitably by a bank in Geneva hackable through ubisoft and a postmodern postmortem that a well housed Ted was big enough to live through.
I can point them out. those who were bought out to shut up about getting off the zone. I CURED this thing! No you didn't. and falsifiable evidence can be brought against in a plea bargain pending loss to la place de tapirov. snort snort. do you wanna die again? try again.
concordance is a brokered agreement with the logo rules of indeterminate bacchus - a wine cooler that emanated a vibrant aura for those tall enough to ride the hellopscope and from aforementioned fancies.
the vertical take off allows for vibe detection. here the fourth time I was greeted by a gun.
sexually afeared heightened though my only hero is Ted Ujensik sour spittle speaking pork trotter eating Ted who was too tall for pay. he lived in a caravan of yore. atop a knoll overlooking a prussian blue looking ocean. and when you look into this particular ocean, it looks back at you. it's not that nice. ok on a discount.
i was place into a delightful super rack stretched every mountain of my lumbar region hotter than a pepper sprout. lumbarjackson machine to wring out every cellular remnant of burn marks from bullets that ended up in a lost tennis ball carpark.
it's always good to have a tennis ball said Shahab al-Din Suhrawardi. though i emerge from the light and into the light again and into another light - a continuity of so on and so on carparks - until the tennis ball I have has deposited itself in a non descript gravelly carpark. this 2 d flat green planet is quite a nice spot to live but I wouldn't want to visit on a discount. I weep silently for the dead rothschild's pets as the gallivant in a bohemian grove with crocodiles colons close to surfeit full of gold and freemasons making memes about peter griffin and kate bouman and the universal sainthood.
to rid myself of adjacent carparks and scheming tennis ball violations I stole a can of flyspray from a friend. my first idea was to sing. my second idea was that flyspray might take out a tennis ball or bullet cos flight. flight is right as the emblazon of 2d flat green logo planet has on its coat of arms that feature a guanaco and a flat worm wearing coronets.
i still snort the ill gotten coronet for the fancy of my reader who like to fan themselves with the mirror device that orbits 2d flat green logo planet in tinted window universe. somewhere someone sings in a holiday photo by a dripping kitchen tap. these locations.
the fifth attempt actually killed me. I speak as a retired failed vampire. I was forced to ingest the neolithic age and every metaphysical ocean that look back at you beamed from the mirror device in orbit of our lovely 2d flat green planet looking like a logo. a mar a logo. florida key logo. damn, this planet is a fucking tennis ball.
at the moment of partum from a historical event akin to failed incomplete ice cube trays going back a number of generations when the octopus belonged.
i as sexually afeared of guns as per Pauline Hanson da truth (1997)
the first time i saw a gun was in 1853 calendar pot of oithear in a gravelly carpark. a sawn off double barrel rifle wanted to get his brother back from the state of a loss tennis ball of joy, unwittingly thrown out in a hoarders divine service.
I didn't want to come here in the first place. the carpark. now it's all lost tennis balls in a deluge as salve to the second time I had a gun pointed at me by a friend who thought I stole his flyspray.
the third was unlucky. I did get to take a selfie in a police wired perspex cage. walking through la place de la tapirov, a medicated zone where all the children are prodigious and live in stoa edwardian fancies with prim pomegranate samsara. the line of escape was a somatic NASA program of how to feel your death really in a nice way with blancmange donated most charitably by a bank in Geneva hackable through ubisoft and a postmodern postmortem that a well housed Ted was big enough to live through.
I can point them out. those who were bought out to shut up about getting off the zone. I CURED this thing! No you didn't. and falsifiable evidence can be brought against in a plea bargain pending loss to la place de tapirov. snort snort. do you wanna die again? try again.
concordance is a brokered agreement with the logo rules of indeterminate bacchus - a wine cooler that emanated a vibrant aura for those tall enough to ride the hellopscope and from aforementioned fancies.
the vertical take off allows for vibe detection. here the fourth time I was greeted by a gun.
sexually afeared heightened though my only hero is Ted Ujensik sour spittle speaking pork trotter eating Ted who was too tall for pay. he lived in a caravan of yore. atop a knoll overlooking a prussian blue looking ocean. and when you look into this particular ocean, it looks back at you. it's not that nice. ok on a discount.
i was place into a delightful super rack stretched every mountain of my lumbar region hotter than a pepper sprout. lumbarjackson machine to wring out every cellular remnant of burn marks from bullets that ended up in a lost tennis ball carpark.
it's always good to have a tennis ball said Shahab al-Din Suhrawardi. though i emerge from the light and into the light again and into another light - a continuity of so on and so on carparks - until the tennis ball I have has deposited itself in a non descript gravelly carpark. this 2 d flat green planet is quite a nice spot to live but I wouldn't want to visit on a discount. I weep silently for the dead rothschild's pets as the gallivant in a bohemian grove with crocodiles colons close to surfeit full of gold and freemasons making memes about peter griffin and kate bouman and the universal sainthood.
to rid myself of adjacent carparks and scheming tennis ball violations I stole a can of flyspray from a friend. my first idea was to sing. my second idea was that flyspray might take out a tennis ball or bullet cos flight. flight is right as the emblazon of 2d flat green logo planet has on its coat of arms that feature a guanaco and a flat worm wearing coronets.
i still snort the ill gotten coronet for the fancy of my reader who like to fan themselves with the mirror device that orbits 2d flat green logo planet in tinted window universe. somewhere someone sings in a holiday photo by a dripping kitchen tap. these locations.
the fifth attempt actually killed me. I speak as a retired failed vampire. I was forced to ingest the neolithic age and every metaphysical ocean that look back at you beamed from the mirror device in orbit of our lovely 2d flat green planet looking like a logo. a mar a logo. florida key logo. damn, this planet is a fucking tennis ball.
