Dadagram #19

We're all ghouls here, breathing the gasoline of absence. Hours withdrawn, their energy embedded in the palindromic ago, larger categories left to bake in the sun's relentless glare. One nebula is methamphetamine's chiseled bark. Dull greens and blind machines, the stomach of eternity talking to itself. A neverending parade of strong white teeth passes its only decibel to the divine mystery, and somewhere the value of a dollar takes notice. Drowsy crabs, scissors, an internecine moon parrying and thrusting in stereophonic sound, that's the key to yesterday. Sliced antebellum kissed on its drying innards. Marijuana really needs to learn how to subdue the six faces that have never met before it can even think of rising in the polls.