WeirZ

Lost in the crudulated catastrophe of con-committed cumuppance; that has deflected from the Kryonic Kismet that has blessed me with existence in the forms of futility that assault me, with the deranged warped dream of the urban nightmare. The old man sleeps on the park bench, homeless and broken he drivels out the spittle of being a rejected cog spewed from the machines of futile nowhere; as the hogs flip the turnstiles so the cattle can shlep the treadmill of dreariness and go to their feeders and slurp their nummy-noonfare, as they fuck the flip-lever bar-hop and copulate the clam biscuit with the skank-wench that plays dialing for dollars with her birth-control toolkit. The Gastric Yuppy Hero with his fuming flatulance of thought, exudes fulminating manifestos of bullshit-vapor while the scuddled masses whittle their skittles and frenzify the torpidity of their stupification with ever descending vacuities of attempted cogitations of regurgitated and recycled cognition. Fatso Moneybags is the god of the coming age, he will suck us up and crap us out until nothing is left on the earth except his shit. Then he can help himself to a heaper and suicide the dialecticism of his waddled consumption as he gazes upon the wonders of his work, while eating a shotgun as the crimson flower of his brains sprays the putrid dawn with the last blood-flood ever to be seen or known at all....