a new layout test

	so this is the layout that i am working with..it seems to work well and i like it. i think i will keep it for now

surrealism is not dead

more exquisite corpse. no one reads this so its easy to get away with it.

Demented fritters calloused the skies; flirting dangerously with their sexual hand. Why were her teeth filed off at irregular intervals, at such contrast against her almost perfect rows of faggy worms who's fuck-power was once harnessed by a prince. "Up yours!" he bellowed. "I know this is a struggle for you." she soothed. dejected his brow furrowed...and his phallus squirmed. fighting to keep his muscles intact, Bruce the iron cowboy jumped off the side of a narrow barrier into a flaccid mound of used and vile war-boots. dirty onions squeaked, chirping at a homo washing their knickers in the moist springtime dew. they laughed knowing that no-one could ever have any of the poop spoons left. french architecture smacked us in the face, as if by a kitten. Mommy sobbed because it was affter all like she had "so sexual," even though it was not. fine with her ovaries. much sugar did flow over onto the bright well unlit candle, gnawed and smelling of almonds or cherries, like the sauce that fairies...eat before debutante intercourse.

Sucking coke through his anus, Burt exclaimed mightily, "Them houndogs sure are purdy!" the shallow breathing wilted the wrinkly folds of skin around the opening to the almost abrupt and spotless charm-free snot balls, shipped expressly from Saint Orleans. frivolously he wandered toward the lone cup of steaming meat that baby reached for almost knocking the cereal made of acorns up toward the moon in no gravity sex-thrusts. The fingers meandered gently up to the museum of poisonous flowers where so many of their friends had slurped and gurgled to the rythm of the salt rock-cock. flagellating amorously, the baby seal leapt of in an awkward attempt to squeeze medicine from the bags of old mercedes' condom rappers. Fucking a misty sad-eyed old crab, as it popped up for the opportunity to be killed or kill again and again as if the fart had died again. The crows cried platonically, warbling against the warmth of the sun.Find the remaining nests where at last they could rest...and then nothing.


Peeling off the last bits of skin, he leaned back in his chair, holding a deck of cards in his armpits. kicking out lashingly, a lone trumpet muncher breezed freezily from underneath a sock-puppet-anus, they almost never understood but Ruth insisted that this time the umbrella would penetrate. "It just takes time." she screamed. flatulence ended all thoughts of whipped-christ, the zombie, wrinkly picture of his wrinkly mom in his wrinkly wallet he pulled it out to see. sadly it dimmed as he did. Finally the one thing that he had dreamed of night after night bloodying his porpoise in the foul smelling pool. intoxicating his neighbors with the plastic scum that poured out of the one working elastic mammary. oily, sweet yellow icky perfume ingratiated the rats so reminiscent of mardi-gras where he had lost his virginity by walking into a crowd of drunken mackerel. Noisy sullen fags meandered around crying plantitively for "more lubricant" "or marmalade"