I hate my words right now
...so, send my your favorites...written or thieved
...if that task begs difficult...I'll probably read anything...
...An old stumble...a training video if we must...
Peaches...you like peaches but what about the sticky sweet glamour of hairless fuzzy raster, and the commandoes in the garden with shakes of flaming metal, burning swords for pedals, and June wanting to purr, be purdy or perfect, of drunkenness, lend a hand gentle women, lend a hand to diurnal disease, and wilting majesty, flipping fancy, epitomized pits of sized up lies, innocence sullen, sullen sense of real days, and nights in no armor naked with frigid limbs, and branches of olives and elephants walking to the fridge for beer, and beaver, tusks and pot-luck chance encounters with meat markets and far flung registry, full of cash as a bandit and purgatory, tell me a story about the time I went to limbo because my momma made me, she sent me half way to hell for killing the cat, like curiosity wasn't going to tie a firecracker to her tail, and blow her to Uranus, actually that was hers, no more fur, just burial wisp purrs, spurs of fields and spoils of corn, metal maybe porn, daydreams and nighttime for living, breathing paint in bags of rust, and the leaves that forgot to lust for spring and blossoms of naughty bottoms of lakes and prayers for chemical courtesy as lunacy was a moon of nut jobs and wards of districts and strict rules about menacing the youth and teaching violence to support a growing numbing tooth waiting like dicks have friction, craving sex like drugs, and attributing germs to the whiskey, cells to prisoners of things I always needed to forget because they are gone...long and gone.
...so, send my your favorites...written or thieved
...if that task begs difficult...I'll probably read anything...
...An old stumble...a training video if we must...
Peaches...you like peaches but what about the sticky sweet glamour of hairless fuzzy raster, and the commandoes in the garden with shakes of flaming metal, burning swords for pedals, and June wanting to purr, be purdy or perfect, of drunkenness, lend a hand gentle women, lend a hand to diurnal disease, and wilting majesty, flipping fancy, epitomized pits of sized up lies, innocence sullen, sullen sense of real days, and nights in no armor naked with frigid limbs, and branches of olives and elephants walking to the fridge for beer, and beaver, tusks and pot-luck chance encounters with meat markets and far flung registry, full of cash as a bandit and purgatory, tell me a story about the time I went to limbo because my momma made me, she sent me half way to hell for killing the cat, like curiosity wasn't going to tie a firecracker to her tail, and blow her to Uranus, actually that was hers, no more fur, just burial wisp purrs, spurs of fields and spoils of corn, metal maybe porn, daydreams and nighttime for living, breathing paint in bags of rust, and the leaves that forgot to lust for spring and blossoms of naughty bottoms of lakes and prayers for chemical courtesy as lunacy was a moon of nut jobs and wards of districts and strict rules about menacing the youth and teaching violence to support a growing numbing tooth waiting like dicks have friction, craving sex like drugs, and attributing germs to the whiskey, cells to prisoners of things I always needed to forget because they are gone...long and gone.
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...anything e.e. cummings....
ps. if you just give her better 4 play, she'll come back. write still it doesnt seem like shit anymore. (says the hypocrite)