The Thirty-Six Headed Chrome Bee Dolphin

At the holy toe of the marmalade mountain parallel golden tornados swept in like atomic camp fires framing the revolving reflection of the rising dawn. Witness the strength, behold the witness. Thirty-six spokes means thirty-six seasons whispered the egg faced oracle, thirty-six doors, thirty-six directions, thirty-six choices. The skies were filled with earthworm faced seagulls forming a five cornered triangle of redemption. The twice born beach buggy ant prince calmly rotated his spinning wheel turning jelly fibers into liquid diamond yarn. No kebab portfolio can save you now. Bruce Palmer III had nothing to do with it, neither had Ray Parker JR.

The five legged toothpaste horse from the deeps of the slime sanctum raised a thousand miles tall sail of led and took off for the galaxy of gravy, at that time every sign pointed in the same direction and I'm not talking about Leonardo Da Vinci’s last supper here, and he's not talking about mine; inside the stomach of the electric pinapple scorpio there's a stranded whale sending out morse codes saying 17" rims, SKF bearings and 5/8-18" threads are so out of style.

The mystery man walked down the buttery sidewalk of my morning toast, on six feet long stilts of crystal he observed the break dancing Norwegian swordsman chasing the corpse-painted children riding bareback along the 16.75 millimeter axel shooting right through the cylindrical nest of the thirty-six headed chrome bee dolphin.

After all magnetic fields had been disolved, after the Musulman orphans had all returned back home it all came down to this; a physical Hindu temple architect is so hard to find. Blood red lanterns deep below the surface glows like a dying cucumber pony's dream, green and red, start and stop, life and flesh, one way or the other we'll all bath tonight.
Sing this text backwards seven times in a row and see what happens, or don't - and see what happens, imagination is nothing but the content of no imagination.