Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Mona around her hair

Mona has a screaming queen. She's buried the dead yet the dead are relentless
restless won't quit, kick back dust, dirtying the living. It strings along
                             this line of thought informs her shaping care and night worry.

On the other hand, Franny the good goes to bed with J1. J1is sleepfucking with Jacky. Mona, Mona, the inventor of a tale and a book. Not like the bourgeoisie. She has cold fish                                 hands (her shake's limp)  and daily forgetting the remembering squalls of her language      learning she removed . She's removing the reproving volume of a slim tale and peeling curlers around her hair.

Jacky returns back-to-back finding her three to one. Out in the quiet. The bold land quiet. A tear in the cared for rare silent. Muffled kiss caress of four to one her double-eyed jinx.

There aren't enough hours in the day to love you: Franny. Her mouth's long as wider a tuba a sheer cliff face drop. Can't explain herself write backward as the speed of. Her twosome becoming. Thought her nearest (eyebone) neighbour. Discovering her at home the couch J and she's welcome surprised love. A freedom to hold the other an extremely good-looking man.
                                            The stupid Christians believe they think but are  mystified by the second generation Bulgarian slav-faced lover who's sex is stronger .       Blaming the other always, Satan the Satuday bum. Poor old Satan, poor old Saint Nick.    Christians equal crucifixion, the purple crucifiction. A boy named Henry Miller.

Her face's Slav the the rain. Along the line of crevasse and sheer cliff-face. As it working the air of disdain and like ? As she worried the wandering ? And reciting her bare book? She cambered to its needing know? And her panties? She pulled J to her face crying sigh to her saying mine mine mine you're mine you took him now you are mine . I won you her lissome degree of three. If she's homosexual it's because he's. Not.

                             Tonight she's hepster to the full moon a sailor going berserk. An empty cliffhanger poorly dressed.

------------------------ Jill holding her breath blowing blow blow~ the trump, the oboe, the clarinet that weaves out the dear tune   ~.

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