Authentic Artifice Poem by Zac Wittstruck

Attempting to alliterate the reasons for androgyny, the frantic fantasmagorian soapbox pleaded with silver cleats the need for spewing meat through cheese shredders with large pores, and stored the residuals inside a frequently used sequin embedded resin storage tupperware breast. The cameraman, mr. bubble, guzzled six gallons of gasoline enriched with unfamiliar acronyms and left the ransom at the rent-a-center with the handsome landowner, poor in wealth but rich by name. The clerk responsible for the drive-by was knee-high in rye (a positive note for the summer harvest) , yet there was no way of knowing if loaning loneliness lent itself to correcting the lubricating workforce beyond the reaming means of cloaking stockholding cuckolds. Loopholes have long since forsaken baconian rations benefiting nations who hold poor status quo updates and dreams of suicide, though not in the wrong context, and the man who ran Tortugas into the fan was simply using his resources as a source of confusing simplified jigsaw puzzles to course the hoarse minds with morse codes. Later in the day the greeks skittered strategically into the daylight hours of darkness while their mutual wife imitated the rainy day's natural tendency to pray by the hearth with a bottle of canned corn. Leastwise, the ram's horn is often absorbed into the false meaning of radiant bleeding over infrequent fossil fuels which lie in beds amid styes originating due to lack of excessive carnal philanthropic war criminality.