plucked testes
As time accelerates there are less people to record the history of our
genius although flesh seems in excess. Death is not the question when
change drips with mucoual fear, and halogen fills and occasionally, oh-so
occasionally empties our turgid lyphatic yelp-wells of consciousness
phrased as necessary.
Am I necessary? ABSOLUTELY NOT.
Do I love this? With contrition!
And a boustiea of arbitrarity.
A fan fanning a fan sparks the fires in the genetial ovens and suddenly
words are perpetrated against the last person on earth you thought you
would victimize. When there's a gun in the house;
and yet I only interpret this as a baffling perfection in polarity, the
desire that sprang all willy-milly from paradise like so much ameteur
pornography. My necessity to interpret at all is an Escher etching
between two mirrors dangling in an octogonal sojourn of waterfalls as the
Jack Off ®
eclipse of Thomas Kinkade's notch up projection symbiotically tangos off
of the million faceted eyes of the fly fishing for sucrose on the sore
faulting the shaft of his dick, meeting like the eyes of the janitress and
the c.e.o.
The eye is looking at the eye again, while the left hand and right hand
contaminate their self-absorption with plots of vengence, slamming shots
of the strain of ferral mold that was spattered on his lips the moment
after able took his last breath, and cain still needed someone to makeout
with. Why rather perpetrate fear of those you encapsulate, tragicomic law
enforcer, than perp my orgasm, lest Kali come a-calling and replace your
oracles with testes plucked like grapes from the harvest? But even then,
more fear. Your desire is weak if you do not succeed in prolonging your
pleasure, and no sixteen legged indulgiary pardons come crawling by in any
age of information. Self start? Lonesome singularity? Apartment
solidarity? Sinews of a fortitudious community in capsules on the shelf?
My Sharona?
There's one candle in my heart, but that doesn't stop it from burning for
anyone who would witness it.
genius although flesh seems in excess. Death is not the question when
change drips with mucoual fear, and halogen fills and occasionally, oh-so
occasionally empties our turgid lyphatic yelp-wells of consciousness
phrased as necessary.
Am I necessary? ABSOLUTELY NOT.
Do I love this? With contrition!
And a boustiea of arbitrarity.
A fan fanning a fan sparks the fires in the genetial ovens and suddenly
words are perpetrated against the last person on earth you thought you
would victimize. When there's a gun in the house;
and yet I only interpret this as a baffling perfection in polarity, the
desire that sprang all willy-milly from paradise like so much ameteur
pornography. My necessity to interpret at all is an Escher etching
between two mirrors dangling in an octogonal sojourn of waterfalls as the
Jack Off ®
eclipse of Thomas Kinkade's notch up projection symbiotically tangos off
of the million faceted eyes of the fly fishing for sucrose on the sore
faulting the shaft of his dick, meeting like the eyes of the janitress and
the c.e.o.
The eye is looking at the eye again, while the left hand and right hand
contaminate their self-absorption with plots of vengence, slamming shots
of the strain of ferral mold that was spattered on his lips the moment
after able took his last breath, and cain still needed someone to makeout
with. Why rather perpetrate fear of those you encapsulate, tragicomic law
enforcer, than perp my orgasm, lest Kali come a-calling and replace your
oracles with testes plucked like grapes from the harvest? But even then,
more fear. Your desire is weak if you do not succeed in prolonging your
pleasure, and no sixteen legged indulgiary pardons come crawling by in any
age of information. Self start? Lonesome singularity? Apartment
solidarity? Sinews of a fortitudious community in capsules on the shelf?
My Sharona?
There's one candle in my heart, but that doesn't stop it from burning for
anyone who would witness it.