Moven

In a hole, a deep dark one, there spouts a steady stream of fecal matter. At its source, you. You are the source of a reprehensible fountain of feces. I like it. Last night, I had a dream about you. I dream of you often. All kinds of positions, all kinds of sensations, those dreams with the wide hips and crooked yellow teeth. The dreams with softly prominent nipples in a beige Baniyaan.

So then Johnny went walken...he went walken, without you. He said, "Banksy dog, why you always gotta shit right here? Ha, dog knows we about to get out this nice shit, so he gotta shit right before we hit the ghetto." Do you remember? "I'm just more of a minimalist, ya know, I hate kitsch." Johnny looked at that clown and wished Banksy had shat on his foot.

I wish my dreams came true...oooh. I don't know what to do. This month, in this month, I need to stop dreaming of you. When your hair is just right, there lies a cemetary of gelatinous coffins atop your head. And beneath the graveyard, a landing spot, for the stones I will throw when I destroy you. Lovingly, I muttered the rest of what I always say - it's the undisputed truth.