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Prathna Lor

A band of pixies will devour an entire fist with false teeth. They are the exact same size as the pebbles you carry around in your belly button; you cannot hide them from me, they make the same noise the pope makes when he tries to push a mountain with the tip of his nose; the ones you use to weigh down the cyst, keep it from expelling pus to the bottom of your scrotum. Your scrotum is really a sack of bees. I know it is itchy; do not scratch it. Do not whack my face with your scrotum sack of bees. You will never be able to overcome your sporadic, involuntary urination problem. You can stretch your scrotum for thirty-four kilometres and use it as a slingshot and bruise the moon, I know. There is no need to repeat your qualifications. The moon will laugh, become an egg, crack, and you will think it is the sun emerging; nocturnal dawn. Shut the fuck up your poetry. You are no longer allowed to consume poets, bards, or war veterans. A lance will show you the difference between bone and metal alloy; jousters will teach you how. This is how you breathe. They will tell you to never floss your teeth with the vein of a shrimp. See; it is the ground that reaches up to make contact with our feet. It is intent on forcing you into a pitfall. Do not touch my left arm. We are almost in the kingdom. I will never tell you how I raped the nape of your neck with a sigh. I never pushed you. Do not let the sociological context of the tower mislead you. The gate will only open if you withdraw your entire intestinal tract from your urethra. Let's exchange skeletons; flesh for flesh. Don't make a fetish out of this.

Prathna Lor is slowly breathing. He enters text on a blog and thinks about things.