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Tampon wind chimes would like to web their take to gallstone marbles on a garrote of pearls. Breeder cults thirst for spawn a magazine will pulp. Sky like the floor of a masticated pelvis. Rung over thrush the juicers have creased. This baby boom could use a few good long knives.Rejuvenation proving fickle. Resolve besieged by those raw ghosts. The only thing I need to hear from you is the roof of your mouth fucked with steel. Nylon strokes frenulum in the collapse of its fork, furrowed by the gulp that crests upon the gag. This all got fucked to shit when we stopped bonding over porn. Is there a phrase more redundant than “surplus population”? A universe of pleasures in the flecks of shit forking a hooker’s chest where a new cunt was spliced in by a torrential rain of ax handles. The only difference between you and a stranger is that if a stranger was being raped in front of me I would intervene on their behalf. 

TM NCP + Posthuman Magazine