“Do you think we can fly?” – Fred Durst
Paddock masters stocked stable with puss,
drenched silk purse commas and diatribes, ribs
strewn about the plain like so many cliches on a
roasted dais, repulsion of solo teen webs in the
eye darting of horror, so it is giving birth bacon Jupiter on point to no butter, no paraentheses
asphalt caliber pigs fisted
hypertrophied teepees