PENKNIFE

	freely frooning in my sleep, i fear not the frost, but in this flimsy and forbidding foundry, a formidable phalanx of philanthropists forbiddenly formulate faux farms, festering farcicle frost for fame, freedom and fun. frowningly, the freak frogfish from afar were finally unfrozen. they flew through the ozone no go zone, and familied frillions of fishpoles. the flippery type. the factional flashmob type. we fret, we fear, we dred, we drear. flat fins and flippers, glimpses of fingery feet, flicking their fly-lickers, frogfish in foggy night streets. fazed or unfazed. folk are fed on. the fortunate few fracture their brainframes, and fly into phases of feint. the funniest are the flock. they fascinate fear-filled familiars with flyswats and flockswords. they fasten floorboards over filled fridges, feeling that falling like a fly is worse than to die. the fratellian feeling is formed, and figuring the fractions and fanning the fire is a flighty fellow in a frilly frock. the failings fall on the faculty's focus. they are flying freudianly into fear-festooned lagoons. london lagoons flaunt a flat film of foggy frost, which is feebly flapped at by black-clad fundertakers. we feast on fun, finish with sin, flakes of fin, frozen bun.

you can’t not like this fucking poem