Desconched ode to a laser lens cleaner CD

I usually softed in front of the 85-foot Godzillas...an Arturo in black...with a tail...twelve tails, and a blowjobized Tierney? The fuck is this? It would take a whole life to understand how this comes to be a musical disc: CD Laser Cleaner, flat, silvery and made in Portugal, straight into the heart of the best ones. 

We felons, awkward pleasuring ourselves in the listen of Adam West's picaresque 1966's LP: "The sex Bat Cave", were angels of degradation into the the mutation of the mutilation: this CD Laser Clinics was blessed beating wings, and kissing my balls circumference, if necessary.

Like the meaty lips of a 130-foot archeress, delicately listening to my face in aural osculation, the twin balloons of Firestone & Michelin were at once my shackles of matrimony, and the finger that will wet the anal ring of Janiffer Lopes, with the moisture of life from my own...oooppsss; and then slowly...gently...make her shiver a bit...like a small Ricardo Montalban coming from under the bed...slowly...making her...soft...even...in circles...rimming her pectoral rings slowly until I hear her whine...growing like a soft thunder of Puerto Rican hi-tech, argent plate, like, like, like an Engelbert Humperdinck ready to pounce the ounce, until I quickly and effemina...oooopssss, pick you up, pull you towards my gonads, and tip you back and forth, savoring the floppy sensation of the rancid angles of a Borges' book and many long enemas, all at the same time.

In all the moments she is with me, and I am with her, she: la CD Lens Clinic Disk. 

We might focus our passion back to the great beast of the sound, Trent Reaznor: he is stable, he is warm, he is...Reaznor, and I am going away from...him...deeper...I am falling fast into the darkness...into his darkness...into his sound...feeling...me...fading away...from...

AH! IS TRENT FUCKING REZNOR.

Even then, even in the darkness...the three grey doves flew into the tenebricose bedchambers of my psyche: Reaznor, I, and CD Laser Clinic disk were there facing us each other.

Then, the black-bestial Reaznor sound delivered his messages in black, invisible cubes of pure everlasting coprophagy that collided with everybody and became absolutely nothing. 
It do not ask, I kick like a mulle, or simply grab you away from his Reznorean cradling hand, holding you uncomfortably by your chin: you, my the the CD Laser Clinic Disk.

Now the weight of the sound starts sinking me into a black and sweaty carpet that smells like farts of yesternights: as fast as a shark, Reaznor appears at my room by means of teletransportation, shouting by his nipples' areolas: "Myysssiisstter DaaaaWallll...wwwhhhyyy?..."

Brusquely, a telestial army or force, (maybe Mormons or the Antichrist) all dressed in angelic white tunics, quickly entered the room and went about waving wands and casting spellls, sometimes using tiny swords to stab at the evil forces of the Trent Reaznorsism of this world. 

The army of light fights on, the battle rages on speaking indistinctly in long drawls of vowels, moving in slow motion, or farting in Technicolor. 

Somewhere, somebody slowly turns the dimmer for the lights all the way down, while turning the dimmer for gravity all the way up (!) It's the end of the road, the musick fades away, the lights are turned on, now: out, at the hazes of the Gulf Stream that crash like a vapour full of flatulent aromas against the port of Gijon, the oceanic sun shines again: Trent Reaznor is dissolved in a cloud of Peruvian ceviche.

Only CD Laser Cleaner and I remain into the room, beholding each other into the eye, almost enraptured into her chromium, blatant shining.

CD Laser Clinics is the best imitation of love since the hand.