You’re listening to the Wyrm. Abandon all to the Wyrm.
Scattered reports have come in on the recent development in the S.C.U.B.A. (Semiotics Cauterized Under Bibliofrothing Aardvarks) sector of the rising disintegration Swarmblue fury, rising pepperminted shin confetti and sashimi-blushed faces of those massacred in the Shinto-Dianetic Initiative. While unknown relations persist between the growing Honda Elemental threat, we have a schematic for the Environment-Wherever-Pylon which intercepts enough of the Sound to get our ‘knees into our feet’ as the popular slogan has it. The President of the Omloch Republic of America is preparing to speak out against these simper-bolted turmoils later this week in a press conference scheduled on the azimuth of every third cuticle in the World.
You’re listening to the Wyrm, the only news team that gargles into the very cerebellum of our Day.
Now, over to our plateau-pored princess, Our Lady of the Teratoma, with her weekly Cultural/Media Crunch:
Thank you, Gossamer Smith.
You know, friends, there’s a limit where the scriptures give out, where they translucent into that aftertaste of laughter and all you can do is chew up splinters of the words you came to trust. But all us on the hearing end gets a spank of wasted syllabland, disfigured geometry once praised for its scintillated curvature called Word.
But shit, bitch those days are done.
I DP (I’m phallossoming this time of month)a 12-year-old moloch vestigial-Colossus every morning in place of orange juice and imitate the wind through all his cuneiform-seared cavities. The effect: 3 parts granite Compari, two parts bliss.
Look, notice the way ridges swell at my approach. They call it a sickness and yeah I’m a student of the Taxonomy of the Cough, but at least I retain sweet vistas. We all became this way for a sifted backlash of revenue I call “Baby Bordello Gen-Fix” because the chemical melee prawned all of Greater Kindergarten into a ripe jambalaya of kid bone and kid fucky-flesh.
No one seems to remember a time before these Carapace Memoirs became a go-to popular feed, but for less than a fiber fifty off the quai you could channel your aura’s mp3 chakra-clones into several Salamander-like tissue probes.
Dance the night back into the dermis of the Diplidocus.
Times apparently change? But really this is just a loophole gambit back to Word right?
In the wake of the re-terrorist @Now-herds, the city mesh did not function swimmingly. People fell in and out of existence like pinball bacteria in a luminous, luminous gangrene. Eventually, the youth siphoned itself into a question-mark-like coil and bonscorched the facelands into a monument unparalleled in grandeur and oxidation.
Vitamins then took such a resilient stance against production, sick of millenia spent in aid and foundation. Their mineral efficiency diminished into a rich armada of opposite blisters like mach-guns' backwards suck, a slippery antithesis to their familiar ballistic.
Of course, at this point, everything that might even slightly resemble the attributes of a mother compounded into a Vegas type fluorescent pentagon of sun that ravaged the prairies in leviathanical thrust and cap, stun and surge. Mothers had finally got the upper hand on childrenated distance, but of course this distorted the suffocating image of infant blasting it through barrier on barrier of skin and alba, reaching up a scythy-vesicled form of offspring: the Vowel, and how ecstatic we all were upon that encounter.
As you know, I could not let these passages go unintruded so I gaussed up a beacon-shiva and tore every gilded appendage from the respective horizons of the mass and threw a light dinner consisting of radish-arugula-staple-pig salad and the wine of a fossilized eunuch of torture unknown to this genetic miasma. Only the celebrities most anthrax-scattered were accepted and the ghosts of my two uncles who consistently ate sections of each others Lymphatic Vessels through their nights during the third phase of the fifth American civil war.
Tired with the battalion of my mostly carnivorous HDTV, I lie in the milky wilderness of the Petroleum of the Endless, which naturally shot up everywhere to compete with the nano wipeout of the Saga Theme Empire.
How many people must be mutilated bed-bath-and-beyond method before my voice has Words like I met them again?
(at this point a millennium carbides all noise to sigh)
I take the seconds in stride and quietly salute you from somewhere deep in my continent of arms.
Worry not, my friends, for Our Lady has just begun.
As I’m sure all the misttoos on your thousand-rented bloodmark indicates, I deserve the World.
Nothing confronts my medusa-rifled banshee streaming: suck on the lullfrills top like all the 24/7 river-mouths finally found a little crotch, snap, and poppa they can call home.
Sincerely from out the Shining Cysts,
Our Lady of the Teratoma
You’re listening to the Wyrm.
Cyborganic Antelope on Jejeunal Branches of the Gaza Crater in the recent 'Mirror of the Moon' campaign have taken the left nodule of Orlando hostage. Currently negotiations seem to be centered around the absolute admittance of the entire Neo-Serengeti Expansionists into the Albionic Citadel Pulp on the up-and-coming Creek District of our sister planet Venus. More on this as it develops.
Abandon all to the Wyrm.
