The distortion of rectitude maintains the guise of a charismatic persona, with a co-existing ulterior motive.
Searching for our lost soul is intensified by the diametrically opposed collision of ancient and modern pizzicato.
Listen to the voices as they forcefully project powerful messages into the darkened recesses of presumed enlightenment.
I have released my imprisoned being from this custodial fabric of presumed alignment, into the lofts of undetectable thermals, where soaring wings surf undefined boundaries of spatial awareness.
Cosmological democracy is the State in which our orchestral garden grows, light years beyond the doorway of the beginning.

Shall we embark upon the ancient grove, where seedlings propagate their sensual jaws of death?
We have burst forth from the liberated confines of contemporary entitlement and social communism.
Crossing through to the cosmological amusement arcade, we are presented with a melodic base and harmony which rise beyond legends of dialectical octaves within our classical symphony.
Therefore, let us use visible gestures which convey an accurate understanding of this intricate arrangement.
It is not dissimilar to the purkinje fibres of ventricular walls, because without synchronicity, the music will cease to resound across the galaxies.

There is something releasing about an expression of eclectic cynicism which is not divorced from an acoustic reality.
I have my PhD in testing times, and appreciate my role in helping to bring wisdom to the naïve.
However, we both know, that those from seemingly prestigious social echelons are also immersed in an oblivion of denial and Great Western dreams.

Las Ramblas takes me into the olfactory and gustatory folds of a multicolored bocadillo, which led me to the breathtaking and fearful tunnels of El Chorro.
I have identified those at Sants who maintained deviant motives and gazed upon the beauty of those tree-lined streets of fountainous resignation.
Nevertheless, the combination of manchego and chorizo leads me to those meandering roads of Andalucia where the Sierra Nevada can be witnessed from festivals in Pastelero and Villa Nueva in a midnight breeze.
The best sopa de acho is to be found in Antequerra.

The corridors of eternity are filled with a pungent black smoke, where seductive goats dance amidst the aroma of flickering shadows.
Regret and lost opportunity have forever lifted their elegant skirts with brazen mockery, and paraded their alluring nakedness with political and fornicatory statements.
From which Order do you harken, my brethren of unrestricted and universal boundaries?
Oh, ancient accomplice from unknown nether regions, venture into the underworld where spectres enforce their varying ranks of forgotten presence and renovate my dilapidated existence amidst this catalogue of brilliance, where simplicity and elegance collide.
It has been passed down to us by way of oral tradition.
My goblet has been raised along with the ceremonial blade in acknowledgement of sensual and procreative acts.
It’s a simple expression of gratitude to my Succubus.

Vision is an inexplicable experience, where perception blends with distant intellect and galactic rationalism.
As we sit together and lay aside our preconceptions, we both know that it will melt in the fifth year.
As we engage in this beautiful marathon and paste ontology across wasteful walls of graffiti, can we now please die?
Oh ancient soul, I am intrigued by your mysterious aura, as your flickering flame has made contact with my ectoplasmic and innermost hatred.
Nationalism is not yet lost, and everything is said to be well.
It is said to be our mistake for not yet having the realisation.
We can only prevent decay for a limited period of time.
It’s just like an inadequate reprimand, don’t you think?

The paradise of darkness is like a climactic and physiological déjà vu, where souls have been swallowed by ancient daemons amidst an **** of oral sacrifice.
Aren’t you tantalised by such forbidden seductions?
Although I am somewhat acquainted with the blackness of unfathomable depths of the ancient abyss, I sincerely call upon your superior wisdom to beckon me across craggy chasms of mathematical perplexity, where eternal ghosts wail with agonising obscurity from the turrets of architectural stronghold.
If you light a candle toward the incarnation of depravity and reveal the sacred circle, then I will ensure safe passage down those historical and spiral staircases where dungeons hold innumerable fetishistic secrets.
I am captivated by co-existing opposites.
Let us talk with the goat, and arrive at a mutually agreeable pact.

Anticipation is like a former actress who eagerly awaits a future prospect, where delicate wallflowers hang with certain fortitude.
Similarly, our medieval ancestors played the harpsichord, whilst later English Baroque flaunted her chauvinistic flamboyance to those who fluttered their eyelashes in the name of socio-economic harlotry.
I am pleased to meet your acquaintance, my friend of gallantry.
However, the roots of Portugese expression are conveyed in the aristocracy of our heritage.
As purity is the laughing stock of assumed independence, and pride is buried in lascivious presumption, we must remember that the classical piano shares an Arabesque flavour which stands in juxtaposition to our Saxony.

The local Kirks will acknowledge that prominent and pagan song on the twenty-fifth day of this first month of monstrosity, whilst witches consult around dark artistry, as we sing this song of yesterday and remembrance.
I have ensured that the roof of our cottage is thatched with straw, whilst the howling winds from the West coast echo her disapproval against the face of solidarity.
We must keep the demons out.
Oh, brother of olden Scottish folklore, I beseech you to give credence to the culinary order, where degrees of freedom announce seniority in this customary ritual of contemporary history.
I will hold my knife in a ritualistic manner and ensure that the guests are satisfied with culinary festivities and drams of Scottish prowess.
Oh Thomas, if you dishonour your wife on the Ayrshire coast, the volume will increase and the flickering light of the candle will ***** out.
I love your look, therefore you can cross my bridge of sensual clothing, as it conforms to the ancient proclamation:
Weel done, cutty sark.
Are you committed to this order?

There are evident walls of invisible matter which maintain the appearance of enviable rectitude, even though the blatancy of our traits confront the myriad of personal dishonesties over timeless planetary separations of union.
So delicate are those seemingly subconscious mechanisms which are subject to our explanatory naïveté and unfathomable presumption.
In this case of psychological avalanche, every metaphorical snowflake within our lives has offered a “not guilty” plea.
Oh, jurors of celestial cities, our mantras have subsided down slopes of exploratory fumbling where excitatory satin slips from the shoulders of a wanton seductress of socio-political exploitation.
Let us ***** an altar, and present an offering to the universe, which surpasses the veneer of familiarity and self-righteous redemptions.
After all, our fantasies are a reality, don’t you think?

I am captivated by the pattern of a tiled staircase where fountain pens scribe forbidden texts upon spiral bannisters which lead to debased psychological states.
Do we have permission on this stage of trajectory, to fire statements into unfathomable corridors, which surpass today into the realms of tomorrow?
Dark figures writhe in the thick fog of eclectic séances.
I have engaged in nightly astral flights down the streets of blatant innocence.
Are you standing on the inside?
Bring me back from what is deemed to be modernity and bypass my voltage where uncertain predictability is a predictable uncertainty.

From a criminological perspective, the gradations of evil may lead to cannibalistic tendencies.
However, I am being stalked by a dark entity which lurks beneath the pulsating vibrations of subtle and occult ley lines.
Permit me to be so bold: How fashionable are our social mores?
And in which direction do you travel?
When we put it all together, the isolated parts generate a fullness of sound which surpasses the acoustic corridor of ancient souls.
I understand that the parameters of Saturn resound with impersonal barks from that old black dog of menacing stealth.
Do you know why?
Because academia lacks the authenticity of genuine experience.
Now, my friend, let us continue to walk down the street of morning where blackbirds whistle in the branches of ancestral bonding.

The simple leaf displays her complexity with utmost transparency, whilst beautiful chords convey a rhythm which is beyond the parameters of articulation.
A droplet of dew can generate a deep sense of perspective in the South Eastern gardens of Saxony, where uncertainty droops her head with daily lamentations and the quest for connectedness.
Is it possible for us to be at one now?
Let us give credence to ancient runes, as we are wanting in our understanding of pagan orchards.
Every picture tells a story under a forest canopy, where stagecoaches compete against highwaymen of contemporary political propaganda.
Numerology is depicted in your iris.
Grow your plants, and we will engage at an opportune time, with wise insights.
Semantics are inadequate to define familial bonds.

Mescalito is around us.
He verges upon the release of inhibition, and stalks those who are willing to see.
Let us pursue oneness amongst these flickering flames of planetary and future nostalgia.
As I can taste your apprehension, it is wise to be aware that preconceived ideas break the flow of the sacred circle, my friend of genuine naivete.
In lunar amazement, I beckon you to join the dance of perception, where what is deemed to be reality is a mere mould of societal conformity.
The definition of fear is nothing less than False Expectations Appearing Real.
If you dare to acknowledge the force of a gentle breeze of the wind, then you will become aware that she is a directional voice in the wilderness.

The malfunctioning soul is likened to a carefree catastrophe, where myriads of mechanics and technicians strive to direct inoperable machinery.
Are you aware, that I can see the depth of your pupils and feel the gyrating rhythm of inhibition as it cautiously lingers on the edge of an ophthalmic funeral?
It truly is possible to have sight, yet to have no vision.
However, if we legitimately manipulate the energy within our sphere of influence, then we shall fornicate with unfathomable depths of shaman sight.
Like a rock which bakes in the desert sun, we must remember those cold and starry nights where perception is personified by the nutrients of plants.
I love those goose bumps upon your skin.
Baroque is the fullness of sound, when the classical guitar strikes a chord with the folly of presumption.

Having embraced the calamity of advancement and mocked the simplicity of sporadic rodent behaviours, can we now cross into the alternate galaxy where ancient and accepted Scottish rites were birthed in an Ayrshire cottage of culinary festivity?
I am aware that it truly is a matter of taste. But who will officiate amongst us?
Your deep lamentation is acknowledged, amidst this order of ******* symbolism, despite those Northern and Southern hemispheres of demonic expression and convoluted discrepancy.
The percussion is a sign that the offal festival has begun.
Spiritual alchemy is not without its price on this winter night of dank precipitation.
Let us loiter in the depths of depraved chambers as the mist hangs her weary head over diurnal and nocturnal disagreements.
This is my first offering, so we must form a magic circle.
It feels like netherworld to me, on this twenty-fifth day of the first month.

I exonerate your freedom of expression, as it reminds me of a grandiose display where extravaganza proudly flaunts herself to captivated masses, without shame.
The evidence permeates its way through our fallen souls.
If you were to caress the jagged edge of freedom and acknowledge the liberties of unequivocal slavery, then perhaps we could interact beyond the deepest and darkest hours of early morning recommendation?
Wanton lusts are irreligious as they parade themselves among the throngs of a murderous vindication.
Therefore, we must make haste to the throne of divinity and stand before the king, oh harlot of discrepancy, where we can give an accurate account of musical utopia.
Is there anything that you want from me?
A brief encounter is characterised by reckless youthfulness, and reveals itself before the parameters of respectability.
We hang on with vanity.
You can **** me now.

Chords of expression fray into the misty atmosphere of a nocturnal energy field, where hermits display magical arts on the cliff-tops of allegiance.
The application of force is intensified with heightened awareness, as it will produce the desired effect.
Are you willing or able to acknowledge that there is a resonating vibration which surpasses timeless universal parameters?
My cat is watching me.
Therefore, the question arises around whether the concept of perception is defined by conservative projections or unbridled liberty?
So, if we meander down those narrow and solitary roads of Andalucia to the small village of Pastelero, where snakes discreetly writhe into the fields of golden grain, we will find that an exploding teardrop is more powerful than a sonic boom.
The sickle is an astrological formation which compels me to ask: Where have all the flowers gone?

Your belief system can alter that which is considered to be reality.
Although vulnerability is a parade of commonality which adorns blissful blinkers, we must never forget that we are inseparably connected to parental validity and unequivocal yet treacherous insecurity.
I do not believe in gender stereotypes and embrace the promise that the taste of copulation is as beautiful and rebellious as teenage wanton prowess in possession of a ligature in a dense forest.
So, my darling, wear your crown.
It’s an acoustic romance where death has cultivated a harmonious melody with an essential bass.
How beautiful is a classical symphony of sadness which is enriched by a recent discharge from hospital?
The train meandered its way along distant tracks toward South-Eastern utopia.

Breathless are those archaeological excavations which once occurred within the geographical contours of Wisconsin.
Many times, we have questioned the whereabouts of your face amidst this crisis of disbelief. It’s like a cake which has been sprinkled with mid-Western naiveté.
Edward was once adorned in deviant beauty, where presumed innocence was held captive by strategic intellect which surpassed stereotypical assumptions.
How virile is your temperament, as it sails within the lower decks of a Spanish armada across strato-cumulus formations?
We have just commenced our finality, where words are unable to reflect utmost confusion within a paradoxical insight which transcends ontological awareness.
Forgive me, as I have swallowed a battalion of deviant souls, where netherworld lubricants simply whet my unfathomable appetite.
Death is our intimate and co-habiting stranger on the left-hand-side, don’t you think?
I have drawn my sword in anticipation.

There are astrological signs which depict the temperature of climactic socialisation.
Are you familiar with the experience of envy?
The early settlers were able to till the land with rhythm, whilst the establishment raised superstitious calamities which were compatible with the presumed evil of harlotry.
Let us rise at this undetermined time of anticipation where maternal bonds are held in question.
Rabbits have always roamed fields in the Herefordshire countryside, whilst post-war community finds affiliation in both prohibition and licentiousness.
I love your scent, as it reminds me of ancient castles.
So, let us burrow into a warren of denial and produce offspring which dissociates from contemporary expectations.
As I appreciate the ages of wisdom, I have questions about our orientation, as it lingers on this eternal horizon of predictable obscurity.

The Spirit of Winter carefully tiptoes her way along the continuum of forgotten Gaelic intensities, whilst mischievous laughter resounds throughout the geographical conveniences of complacency.
How gorgeous is the anatomy of madness, as she perches on gorgon ledges of sophisticated depravity.
I do not even hail from the land of the Gauls.
Yet, ghastly and seductive are those flittering silhouettes of fortitude and perceived harlotry, as they penetrate damp walls of ancient entertainments with multiple partners.
Harken to my lament and do not banish my soul into eternal blackness, as we conjure the sword and kiss with fivefold and unconventional intensities beyond the circles of the forest.
You are now given permission to ring the bell sevenfold, Oh master, where scientific inscriptions are splayed with the blatancy of wanton chastity.
I was born by the river that is never the same whenever it is stepped into with more than one dribbling expectation.

Latent are those transgressions which are gripped in the jaws of an icy-cold vendetta.
In the afterglow of a dusky duet, let us engage with those beings of undetected visibility.
As we balance upon this bright pasture of oblivion, let us detect the sophisticated scent of antiquity amidst a clockwork tragedy.
Many souls are tightly squeezed into a latex circuitry of ambivalence.
We are almost home.

Solace is to be found amidst a cathartic tornado of contemporary embellishment, whilst heaven exists beyond tactile and psychological fiction.
Although obscurity joins hands in affiliation with a questionable character, I fear the Greeks whenever they bear gifts in the form of a wooden horse.
Therefore, write your grimoire and let us waltz into the misty realms of ceremonial magick.

Signals are indicative of current warnings, just like a beacon of light which penetrates the abyss of parliamentary speeches which are designed to evoke contemptuous laughter.
Such animated gestures are not dissimilar to crumbled biscuits which are catapulted before throngs of anticipatory populations.
However, there are varying degrees of rectitude, where the graded fraternity assume grandiosity as they lodge in the fabric of society with loyal deception.
Lurking in the esoteric shadows with the adorned regalia of blatancy and defamed characters - our captors are hidden in plain sight with political sanction.
Gestures are a form of non-verbal communication, where specific messages are planted in anthropological soils with intended purpose.

Mockery forcefully tiptoes her way beyond the barricades of fiction, and confronts populated dunes where ambiguous legs protrude.
Are you a prisoner in this proclaimed age of democracy?
The branches of the trees are still, as we avoid the precipice of calamity in the name of upright citizenship.
Therefore, walk with me along the crumbling castle walls and you will learn that there is a familial bond which lies beyond vain constructs of presumed superior architecture.
I know that it is an altered state of consciousness, so it is important to share your perspective because it is a prominent feature.
It is the memories of the living who are tortured by unspeakable possibilities.
Tickle me pink with choreography.

How enigmatic are your darkest desires, as they pulsate in the radiance of a resilient carbon-copy?
Our society is egomaniacal in its justification of sinister motives, where the majority simply absorb the current pulse and blend into a confused state of delicious tragedy.
Loyalty can be likened to a misplaced trust, where solitaire transcends the cosmological Gatekeeper. Therefore, let us make haste! No time to wait! We’re off to the Sabbat, so don’t be late.
It is almost time to eat cakes and to drink ale, whilst we play ceremonial games during this synthesis of co-existing opposites. Can we meet on the astral plane?
As the gates between the worlds are open at this time of the year, we call upon our ancestors to pass through and join us.

There is fulfilment within the emptiness of a generational façade, where flat keys depict a winter scene, upon which sleep is characterised by haunting screams of enragement.
Stringed instruments have the power to convey a deep sense of loss, and I have not yet gone anywhere.
Forgive me for asking: Are you a victim of secrecy, where illicit fornications abound beyond the parameters of Ashtoreth?
I accept the resolution of this enigma, whilst standing on the inside of the circle.
It truly is an artistic prowess of elegant hatred.

In our mythological mechanism of the senses, let us reach beyond the guardians of the night.
Teach me your wisdom oh spirit of paraphiliac and psychopathic depravity, and help me to differentiate between those various entities.
Oh, reptilian god of majnu, I can feel the enveloping uncertainty of your sensual and dark licentiousness.
Your Goetic sexuality is ceremonially bewitching, whilst the season of darkness lingers before us.
I embrace your possession of madness.

Wisdom of an Aged Ally

Carry my archaeological parchment around this historical site of future predictions, where the
tombs of Anubis are a scent of confusion amidst this welcomed display of harlotry.
Blues music may be ******, as she communicates her utmost intensities with sensual hatred.
However, I have driven through canyons of ****** and violent fantasy, where the abyss is shallow and neighbourly death is sold to huntsmen who are vagrants upon the rail-road tracks of collusion.
Just think about that for a second.
Who are the hunters among us in this echoing swampland of sophistication?

Mirrors are a powerful medium for returning energy, just like a medieval message in a bottle.
Wrap me in your desolate womb, oh barren mistress of death.
Do you really need to be sworn in?
Sky above and earth below, feel my raging aphrodisiac amidst this eclipse of tantric rites.
***** my horoscope in this zodiac, and grow beyond this medieval heresy.
Magick is the science or art of effecting change by the conformity of the will; and you are a sacred star in the night sky.
Let us scribe incantations beyond desert horizons where Kali displays her direction of seasons.
Spring is in the East, Summer is in the South, Autumn is in the West and Winter is in the North.

It is an ancient tradition, and we cannot pull the cosmos apart.
Nightfall is upon us, and the spirits dance with sensual provocation.
Thank you for the scattering of seed, oh mistress of water, air, wind and fire.
Grant us inner insight and carry our prayers to the Goddess at each quarter of this explicit circle.
I am inspired by the elements.
But, please do not allow the gallows to prevail, because I am innocent.
Can we meet at dawn?

The wheat harvest is Magickal, and you have always invited me into your damp crypt.
Apples are ripe when Demeter searches for her lost offspring, amidst shades of nocturnal eroticism.
Therefore, let us now bake bread with feminine or masculine features in the name of Southern rhythms where the hunt takes place upon acreage of the aristocracy.
Do you have any regrets or farewells in this season?
Let it flow like a bubbling brook through woodlands of this recollected netherworld.

My silence echoes across the chasms of Hades, where rabid entities claw at my soul with eyes like splintered rocks and a presence of tangible blackness.
Deafening is this sight of transformation, and I am unable to resist the aroma of tactile experience.
Unfortunately, I am ignorant as I have never metamorphosed nor spread my wings from the shell of the cocoon.
However, madness of the central nervous system is a condition which can result in hydrophobia, especially where sacramental water is concerned.
Therefore, how relative is time in this black hole of confirmed epistemological doubt?

Equations of creepiness exist beyond the surface of interplanetary suckers or tendrils.
So, tell me, how horizontal are your expressions?
As girls are not dissimilar to counting backwards on a scale of oratory genius, then
how far do you deviate from what is considered to be the norm?
Although foliage may display her open and ontological beauty at this uncertain period of nothingness,
I unravel myself from this Egyptian tomb of aborted eloquence.
Just be yourself, please.

The haunting sound of medieval bells toll for those who travel the plains of astral execution,
whilst our chemical consistency is painted upon an easel of timeless rectitude.
Menacing is your gaze, oh mistress of death, yet also bewitching on this eve of eclectic consummation.
As blackness slowly consumes my fibres during this sensual dance of mortality, to the point of euphoric execution, I cannot help but think about the ****** *******, because she is a galactic mystery of anatomical predictability.
So, believe it or not, my friend - beauty is in the eye of the beholder, even though darkness may imprison you beyond the recitals of gothic prayer.
Do not pull my teeth out, while this artistic bass delivers resounding echoes throughout those wonderfully oblique plantations of our Mother Earth.

Philanthropic gesticulations are an evident dismissal of Anglican legends.
In this Northern hemisphere, we are unified on the verge of an axial tilt, whilst equestrian ladies in jodhpurs of champagne delicacy seek profanities beyond the confines of social respectability.
Let us sit under the wise branches of the oak tree in nocturnal dimensions of Newtonian questionability, and broaden our horizons as we contemplate our ancestors.
Listen to the bubbling brook as she whispers timeless stories of enchantment.
Oh, bearer of liberated pain, I resent fox-hunting.
The rooster always crows at dawn.

Take caution, my friend, about joining any club that would extend the courtesy of membership, because
etchings upon our archaeological memory may reap undesirable pronouncements.
If your wings have not yet been clipped, then I implore you to turn the key that abides in the Iron Gate.
Liberty is truly to be found in banishment, and captivity embraces those who are presumed to be socially elite.
The Northern Command has our number written upon the electronic village of global deception, even though undertones are without doubt, seductive.
So, blow your whistles on this day of grey sky.
Your voice has now been heard.

The elegance of death is tenacious and tantalises my raw and screaming divinity to the brink of constant linear velocity.
I mourn the lost solitude of Transylvania, where cobwebs are like ancient pathways which are strewn across the guest-room ceilings of haunted castles.
If we touch the harmony of the howling winds from beyond the forest, they will penetrate chimney flues and invade our antediluvian attic.
It is just like the space between your body and spirit, which transcends a harem of wild stallions as they gallop across unspoken planes of astral hierarchy.
Therefore, children of the night, we must recognise those cloven hooves which have left invisible imprints upon the sands of time.

I think that it may be necessary for you to reconsider your original plan of action.
Consider the power of an old school chopper, as she purrs along desert highways with malicious intent.
Stroke your own cylinder if you may.
But I stand at the bar with timeless convictions that are not dissimilar to innocent victim pathology.
The steel industry has spiralled into a timeless vortex of despair, whilst white-collar crime explodes into an ******* fountain of exposition.
Remember tomorrow, as the sun sets over Western industries, where the streets are paraded by whoredom.
Let us pray the sinner’s prayer.
Thank you for your planetary participation.

Phanerogams are plants which produce seeds.
The wanton harlot may be laid against the wall, with legs splayed, and may also have given birth to unbridled rage.
However, even though such stages of development can be entitled as “*******”, it is worth noting that all behaviour has meaning, my darkened companion of presumed sophistication.
The scholastic scribes will etch their wisdom upon the hardness of our vile vanity.
I hold in my hand a gothic stone, where those who stand before the courts accused of heresy and witchcraft can plead innocence before chanting crowds of bloodlust.
The reaper will gather the harvest at Lughnasadh, whilst the olfactory nerve propagates her funeral games amidst the cutting of ancient cornfields.
As we perch upon the gallows end, let us join hands and chant the mantras of old.
Photosynthesis is a forensic entrancement where there is no rest for the sinner.

Life is like a garden path which meanders through a resolution of dichotomous experience.
Let us make haste, oh weary traveller, beyond the beginning of finality.
As calamity can be a figment of our imagination, so security can be masqueraded by the Angel of Death.
How does your garden grow?
And, are you truly as contrary as we have been led to believe, my deviant little Mary?
We must reach within the depths of our vacant and immortal souls and claw out that ghastly demon who entangles her subjects with cobwebs of sensuality, because the aroma of floriculture tells us that blossom is a reproductive structure.
It is difficult to believe that the dark is rising.
Anyway, let us pray.

Let us consolidate our energies, as branches crunch under our feet in the depths of the forest.
Solstitium reminds me of the polarity between the land and sky.
Have you ever listened to Paul Rodgers?
Drought is prevented by the availability of water in this midsummer spell of philosophical ***.
The sabbat will commence at the appointed time.
Nightfall reminds me of those haunted monks who chant in the sacred forests of explicit storytelling.

Can we ever tread pathways which surpass the expectations of our fallibility?
Loss can be beautiful, as she pronounces her unforgiving denials, whilst solace sheds her tears of joy at the unity around the richness of nothingness.
Similarly, arrival can be likened to departure, and departure can be likened to arrival.
It is important to understand that cognitive restructuring along pathways of Celtic and sombre insight is releasing, especially when precipitation falls unrelentingly upon the skull of a dead sheep.

Blues guitar has caught us in our transgressions, where the summer blossom splays her beauty like a New Orleans Madame amidst the afterglow of a musky and nocturnal vibrancy.
I have a fully loaded clip on my possession, and I am hungry.
So, shall we begin?
Your carotid artery is pulsating with tense anticipation within the sweet toxicities of a tragic and fretful solo.
There is such a responsibility of being a parent, and you owe me some money.
Let us purchase some Bourbon chicken on this eve of celebratory shame, because I have contemplated the chasm between the West and those who reside on the East coast of vice.
We have much to discuss.

If you were able to slice the moon, would you truly be able to consume it?
Those who wish to connect to the spirit-world must not be deluded by the presumed maintenance of an abhorrent character.
The essence of non-ordinary reality, where the personification of the unseen surrounds our material emptiness, requires a level of humility beyond the depths of Palus Putredinis.
Therefore, let us not scoff at exclusion, oh small fish, in an ocean which has eternal shores of teachings beyond the parameters of superior ignorance.
Egocentrism will not satiate the hunger of a lunatic who proclaims independence, yet who truly abides in slavery.
How can we demonstrate a happy medium without being consumed?
Trance is an open state where bias can be banished by gravitational collapse, if you believe it.
In my current solitary state, I can feel a host of sacred dynamics tugging my soul as the golden chord anchors my being to that which is considered to be “real.”

I can feel the wails of ancient ghosts, as their rancid breath slithers past my historical and misty perceptions.
The highlands have a story to tell, so please attend the ceilidh.
Anglican troops have brought violence through those who are possessed by the spirit of treason.
Therefore, let us now make haste to the dance and travel together beyond timeless rails, where austere mist hangs in the air like a Celtic obituary.
Can we at least discuss this repetitive yet hypnotic sound of linear rage?
My motives are sincere.
I am related to the True North, and I appreciate the resonating pulse of your entity.

Serpents writhe across sand dunes where Glaswegian slaughter pronounces her vivid descriptions which are not dissociated from sensuality.
There is a certain rhythm to Marrakech vibrancy, and it comes at the price of percussion awareness.
It is cold on this night of sombre reflection, where the North Line Express cascades across sectarian boundaries.
Please offer me a solid definition of socialism, because my loyalty is laid bare before the perimeters of hatred.
Have you ever driven along Bisland Drive?
My alcoholic escapades have firmly embedded in the annals of street history.
Do you offer your consent?

Step into the cobbled courtyard where highwaymen roar with drunken debauchery, and rotten vegetables pelt the bare buttocks of ancient harlots who are shackled to the stocks of occult accusation.
Forbidden encounters are a certain mischief in the rafters of aristocracy, where disgust and desire mingle in unspoken dialogues and roll within the stench of damp hay.
I am captivated by the vanity of those carnal gratifications where Black Death casts her treacherous shadow across European boundaries.
Our markets are organised by macabre executioners in the finest of linen, who shout joyous proclamations, whilst the wise are aggressively coerced by vile salesmanship.
Please, open the gates to the city wall.
My desire is to listen to the wind, as she whispers reassurance amidst the haunted woodlands where those who are superstitious and faint-hearted fear to tread.
There is no taxation in the wilderness.

Leprechauns abide in pastures of Gaelic folklore where those who are susceptible to their mischief will be spellbound by galloping horses across medieval dunes in the name of allegiance to the King.
We need to cross the causeway at the correct time, in anticipation of tidal waves which approach a finite limit.
Have you ever consumed whiskey in a culture of superstition?
An environment of dark precipitation is atmospheric, especially when the ghosts of ancient battles exonerate our ignorance amidst our blatant lack of understanding.
Let us bow our knee in humble acknowledgement of those phantoms of olde, who teach us about seeing.