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Vulcan Erotica // Tyson Bley

July 4, 2013




Vulcan insomnia forges a portal through the underbelly of


a shaky tricorder, which Spock points at his wig and


mock shoots himself with, alone in his purple room,


rattling off a series of atmospheric extinctions.


A frogman with false-looking teeth will be described


as steeped in cum-tarnish the next time he points that


thing at a dog’s rubber chew toy.




After a very poor display of ‘impulse containment,’


the tricorder finally ‘recognizes’ the wig.




Flooding the corridors in tight sleepwear, the startled crew


hears the machine gun noises of time standing still,


the creaking of giant rain standing still, a shiny tumbling of


miniature gas. A white-out of taekwondo muff, riding up.


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