Hate is the New Fashion

Let Commercial Values Commence…

Fear twists and bends the ballerina into twirling mutations of nature, in forms more unholy than a thirsty boy in India given a Coca Cola, letting the sugary fire of Satan’s virgin daughter park with her older boyfriend on Look-Out-Point. “No!” Father clenches his fists. Fresh panties slip down anxious thighs- sleek as greased pistons- used to rip the oil from the earth, where children are left to play in the acidic black rain of contemporary pop music. Where will the withered hearts of nations go, when all shout, “I ain’t ‘fraid of no ghosts,” in unison, while trudging through the infected white marshmallow streets built by the purge of gluttony?

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