Friends squirm 25 miles a day, with nothing else to show from this life. It's my alarm signaling the future of stew. That's the kind of thoughts I've got. I link ordinary creeps.
I think in terms of disappointment and concern for 25 miles of squirm. Warranties covering friends' urns. I tell my life its abrasions are complimentary and necessary. Nurturing signposts inherently wrong.
I look outside the window and it drives me insane. Sexy teens next door are disposing of the sweet intimacy of void. Minds and mental things persist. Caves under swallowed seas drink 3 black and tans the cops shot.
Friends look outside their caves 5 times a day. I think in terms of anyone who'll have me. By stew I'm desired. I tell the kind of thoughts I've got to take a break and think about tits. Tits present a similar case as a church far away. They squirt my squirm and outlive the disdain.
My meat changes
In the study where I drink.
The only things it wants to be are
Accessories reaching their
Uncensored, erotic, and private end.
In the studio where I paint
A dark bliss lays my skeleton.
I put my cock in my skeleton.
My skeleton steals my heart.
In the serpent where we're lovey
I'm up to my neck in teeth.
And I've got to have her next to me cause
I'm reading the Gospel of Luke on acid:
The dry baby.
The scream stain.
The quick creature.
The muscle rush.
The white slug.
The dry journey.
The slug's bone.
The lint nest.
And my sins lust
The soaked hole,
The white bush,
The rearranged body temperature
In the study where I grant myself.
The Gospel of Luke starts breathing.
My skeleton's my happy ending woman.
Dark bliss lies her on her stomach,
Accessorized, erotic, and virtual.
I pound out of need.
I reach my stain.
I'm fond of the inane.
The slug's bush is
My bones to come.
My mouth buttfucked.
Now I sorta see
Too many presents.
I'm harder and dumber than ever,
Like a common dream.