Sunday, February 14, 2010

this has been will become

Has been of its chairing and the fat night. Poured its kickass blemish down her throat. The hirsute gods and her tank. Quaffed to its myriad taste. A pustule on a wheat stalk and a chocking cheese on its random paste. What fuck of death is that? Shouts a crumbe a criminial tendency to loving all that's fair and cheap. Cellos for the market of your blasting. Not a common ass mind but you a thing flattened by its bearing babes in the unrested blanket of dawn.

Would become its aphasic assault on the pretended senses. Predetermined by its minor chord and echo of the ... Yes, we walk that day. Paris was 90 degrees in the shade of the labour. Of Ulysses and the Atlas covered the blank paging and the trellis

Old mother whore pretending to dance and to love having drunk half her destiny her fate bleeding on the control pitches of her covering back, and that cherub was not angel sweet heartened by the midland dew and the weather coxy foxy bush.