The Taming of the Bucolic Horseshoe: A Pseudo Ode To Edgar Ende’s The New Bucephalus
In the name of Alec Baldwin the Blood Orange’s new world order, an androgynous Grey alien intentially dropped on his international humanoid head without any talent and a Punjabi oxen’s face branded somewhere inbetween the tip of his invisible penis and blackened perimeum
horse’s mouth and the border of his caged cousin’s ass,
but missed the epicenter of the never ending centaur’s canopy for the Farsi speaking myocardial infraction trees from venous.
This donkey-kicked full-circle•
the graceful, bipartisan beast’s coven bit who begged for <Pegasus> came because he tried to cuddle with the hung-on-high pedigreed steed underneath a knittelver veranda quilt via false, cudgel spoonerism pretenses, whilst frantically trying to re€ite a barzelletta under the influence of Xanax. However, this degenerate Nazi was destined to do so, per his anti-gravity
training to become a Belgian Luftwaffle# reverse £ighter engineer during the morning glor¥ song of St. Paul’s baby bluebird in the alive of night. Plus+, when he overlooked into Gary Bucey’s endocrine system’s pituitary wall I, he didn’t like what groundhog shadow he saw in the Lynchian labyrinth of inscrutable inception, so he decided to keep chasing the unlucky year of the dragon back to his defying ensign wolfmother’s rock biting ship and away from the floating cardboard bastion [box] of Breton bombs, which was foretold by his ophthalmologist oracle who was named after a punk band deep within the ocular cavity of a deranged dentist!
Talk about Big Sur realism.