a real good time, a good time.
she did it again. i have to put her words here. i'm lucky to love and be loved by her.
this is another breathtaking and impossibly truthful piece of writing by anna francis howell:
there..walking up and down the broadway...sighing. I do not wish to be anybody, just to merge with a silence that emerges from my mouth half open as I think or dream of escapism and intent, why? the silence gropes me, responds to me, resorts to making me breathe a little longer, bathes me in it's presence. I do no longer watch for your aroma, the air, it makes me be in its space of air and melodic sweetness throes of passionate comprehension and in it's essence instant delicacy of air-breath-fresh- waters-fountain-love-rose-petals-oh you. mmm
yeah yeah- you said that the world was as little as a pancake, or at least you said it with your tongue. the world seems to shrink or evaporate and tremble within its powerful groans of seduction, the world suspires in its delirium of powder puff filled wombs.
The air is filled with night, sometimes, heavy, full of powder and noise like aromatic airoplanes, tank tops and thick lips, which melt into growls and hurtfullness. I see somewhere her, she tilts her hips at me and faux her smile so contemptuous. Why? The world spins the world spins, the stare breathes the thick smell of her ...invading me, she snorts and sneezes, derelict mansions full of poison wine. And laughter evil of a swine. She cuts to kill and swaps her blood for thongs, the world is born of rape and mistongs, the aureal shape of vaginas and thighs and breasts and nipples, all too thick to touch, too tempestous to get near- so out of touch with reality, so dreary my dear.
Yet, there is a choice- I cut through the air (she breathes like a dragon's mist) with my sword of power and truth. She was given neither love nor light at her birth- what can she do? She loves no body. Only....Likes to carve her name on dentures and tip her tits at old pensioners. Hoping for a ride in return, or not.
Old persian carpets and rugs aghast with dust and spilling with rust, the watermelons in my face place the bearded man back into his place. I think he wanted to...to...to row his army back into the forest without me,without my gratefulness.
But the sky is cloudy and I am near to death. The world is spinning and the broadening horizon seems to hide its clues, spears are flying towards me and the time is near. ...
this is another breathtaking and impossibly truthful piece of writing by anna francis howell:
there..walking up and down the broadway...sighing. I do not wish to be anybody, just to merge with a silence that emerges from my mouth half open as I think or dream of escapism and intent, why? the silence gropes me, responds to me, resorts to making me breathe a little longer, bathes me in it's presence. I do no longer watch for your aroma, the air, it makes me be in its space of air and melodic sweetness throes of passionate comprehension and in it's essence instant delicacy of air-breath-fresh- waters-fountain-love-rose-petals-oh you. mmm
yeah yeah- you said that the world was as little as a pancake, or at least you said it with your tongue. the world seems to shrink or evaporate and tremble within its powerful groans of seduction, the world suspires in its delirium of powder puff filled wombs.
The air is filled with night, sometimes, heavy, full of powder and noise like aromatic airoplanes, tank tops and thick lips, which melt into growls and hurtfullness. I see somewhere her, she tilts her hips at me and faux her smile so contemptuous. Why? The world spins the world spins, the stare breathes the thick smell of her ...invading me, she snorts and sneezes, derelict mansions full of poison wine. And laughter evil of a swine. She cuts to kill and swaps her blood for thongs, the world is born of rape and mistongs, the aureal shape of vaginas and thighs and breasts and nipples, all too thick to touch, too tempestous to get near- so out of touch with reality, so dreary my dear.
Yet, there is a choice- I cut through the air (she breathes like a dragon's mist) with my sword of power and truth. She was given neither love nor light at her birth- what can she do? She loves no body. Only....Likes to carve her name on dentures and tip her tits at old pensioners. Hoping for a ride in return, or not.
Old persian carpets and rugs aghast with dust and spilling with rust, the watermelons in my face place the bearded man back into his place. I think he wanted to...to...to row his army back into the forest without me,without my gratefulness.
But the sky is cloudy and I am near to death. The world is spinning and the broadening horizon seems to hide its clues, spears are flying towards me and the time is near. ...