venal_polish

sick of my own words...a journal is
suggested... so here are someone elses:

"the oily landscape, moulded above my bones, wipes the shit out of the air; catches it in my pores. eyes crawl over my back, the hairs, the heat, the fingers. feeling for a head. the morbid movements of the night, the fingers masturbating ideas. these eyes, these breasts, this voice."

achsully their my words...and i sound like an ogre...

spent the wet night stumbling a' drunkenly down
brunswick st with a few old friends & this person that
i lurve who doesnt know i exits...aprt from that im still
clueless abt gud places to go out...enjoyed the cherry
bar once upon a time...push me in the right direction...

excuse me while i releave myself of the
nights drinking endeavours...


loving these thing's; pretending to be all hardcore n stuff..."rawr..skulls n' puke n' shit..."'
im actuallly more of a lamo
ok enuff sofia...