the hidden god of leaky faucets is a time keeper. the weather is naked three pounds of sunlight spreading yellow tree sperms from fanny pack organs gathering marbles of pleasant mother pheasant pluckers. casting foreskins, it's too early and late this year, the kyoto protocol is at the gas station paving the way to first class slums. the traffic bear witness to an eternal funeral procession of apartment coffins. eye land islands of ostracized poetry in rhetoric. the vibrations of fat boys under crothches pummel loose fan belts, screeching like weeps of women shrilling for dead children raised in boxes of blind clockwork, the former glory of dead factories, birthing fast food for blind poverty: robots with religious affinity to bums. sue the dictionary! we're merely acting our philosophies so picket in your car while you rat-race to a red light. the rebel jew who died for your sins created zombies to later become one. i'm in a vegetative state myself as does the current buzz of media-indignation bumblebees. little does the hive know they're dead within themselves. the missionaries do their styles in reverse, they now have deadlines and quotas to fullfill; bible thumping thumpers are laser guided by the end times. "penises now grow on arms" says pope zombie LXIV "and eggs are harvested from dead fetuses. we need more slaves."