What would you call the home which sits, simple, in reverence of fiction, sits in reverence, on two knees and a nose sniffing ***** bones? What would you call a thing which makes, a thing which creates meaning, much less, than it ***** the meaning away?
The past ushers futures inside that my parents made, and their parents made, and their parents, it seems I'm younger than I think. B o r n, i n t o a w o r l d o f d e t r i t u s . b o r n, into a worldoftrash.
Happy. Happy. Happy. My body will carry use once I am dead. I think I taste the dirt.
The likes of you I can't describe, Yet I love to eat between your thighs. The melody you spake to me Unfolds my greatest sovereignty. I crave to quaff all of your spit, And swallow every drop of it. Don't cheat me of your tasty flesh, Those bare and supple ****** *******, Your eyes that follow my firm gaze, While we kiss and lick and misbehave. I need to feel each piece of skin, Smashing girl and boy parts over and over again. It's such a treat to eat you whole; I'm obsessed with eating 19-year-olds.