hellsforheroes

I wrote this a long time ago.....The quiet slips over, leaving fall; rolling a three second delay over the sunny, the bosomed of stringing basket glory polka dot invasion, milk water salvation, goo beyond the Plato, the dough rolled into flour looking for resistance, the viscosity of an inner city, the rumbling bumbling uglies banked upon leavened midget apple cores, tart on the scarlet and jade edges, seeded and tannin near the core, the oaken wood taste like immature felt to a sweet colored trimmed sexual score, her rubber baby fuggy rompers, her apple pie, American baked sugar, fattened sugar plumb fairies, little pixies without dicks you see, singing for my dirty southern Dixie, oh find me in the land of cotton on your breast, asleep my head after the nail got stripped, the pole with big shoes without any rust, just herpes and angel dust, that lovely motion lotion of the dancers, the midnight prancers, the gentle pierced shears of wallet fears, the bitches banging for a buck, looking for daddy to buy a big Texas truck, to find a pot of gold, old, and decrepit, but still what luck, her big tits and his wood permanently stuck in neutral, in pseudo futile, with drugs to get you high, hard, and on guard, swords to the maidens, willowing oak to the bravens, the butternut buttercup coffee of a jungle bunny, the high arch of a grassland fire spark, grandpa irrelevant seeing his grandest son with a hook, a brook trout, sweet, and fishy, a little cozy place by the dead woods fire, a little trailer for the private look, one dollar for me, one hundred for you, to become Seattle slew, a baked stew, a cocktail of a frail mulatto, one hot little staccato, her back up and down, up and down, around and around, rim to crown, yelling to fuck this town, drugs setting this all up, getting slums up, loving the little whore gritty up, a bludgeon to the mashed meat, a soiled knife to a desire less cut of beef, a dance of native tongues, of clothes lines in the forest of bristled pines, a mirror of shattered sunset stripped dreams, Julia as a role model, Lady Madonna stitching Mexican seems, until her fingers get sore, her little endorphins making a move for the door, the underwater air, smelling of the dampened night, the cool of wet cloth, and the cab ride to be fair, the man upon his bench clutching his heart, failing to start, dying alone, sunken from apples, that were possibly a little too tart, his pants around his ankles, his wood to the bent wind, her shadowy ass lithe with poison and a grin, trusting the princess and the whore, loving apples with seeds in their core.

Oh yeah somebody wants me to allow everyone to ask me three questions...anything, I thought it might be fun...anything about anything...you savages