The inside's come out of the skin. Nothing is satirical. It's just not funny. Spiderwebs on the elbows and cancer coming into the ears. Hair is everywhere and all of a sudden. The writer risks blue and black blood for another second of this bliss cessation. But cleverly, sins and bedevilments come. They hide poorly or not at all. bump they go go go in the daytime while I am fastening sleep and heating up.
The cadaver masterpiece is happening again. The same as it always was for has beens when their lucid dreaming raises the rage in their real lives.
There isn't a safe-word, just a blanket. Two tee-shirts with signatures, and lingerie that lacks a heartbeat.
Half a tooth brush missing the rest of its teeth, and a knit panda hat empty from above the bottom of its feet.
To be sick of it does not make a difference. If broccoli was the word, Dana Carvey would have come to chop it up.
When it breathes my pores leak nostalgia from the predicaments; We pretended to grow up. This isn't the adventure season I hoped for. I could see the page crawling up the street beside every single cigarette I threw across the parkway. Now Michael styles the mercury, while those grown ups we knew cry themselves into a blur; Like a movie they just couldn't escape, or the way they met one half of chaste, there are just some things that shouldn't be erased.
Playing with a bazooka while emptying my ice box. I build on schemes of crazy the d oh d just wishes they could ignore. I drink lemonade, you drink lemonade. IPA after motherf*ing IPA. It is or it isn't but I'd thought you had enough trying typhoid drip one after another hysterical catastrophe. Dear I was poisoned from an ill-witted sickness, I messed around with your Blackjack and doubled-down into two black diamonds. Instead of learn'd weekly abuse.
Our island on a hundred dollar towel. An eroteme waiting to implode. Four periods every other week, I just waited for the mouse to roll.
gut rot
migraines.
painful exploding pressure of the skull
does not eat
hearing increase
eyesight improvement
proudly made in the u.s.a.
chipped nail polish comes off middle fingers
does not sleep
erupts verbally
bleeds from fingertips
hates. hurts.
Be is the short form of Is
She has eyes that tell her truths
That bruise youth
But do not amuse
Ferris Bueller's muse
Silver too. Haircut rivalries.
Privy eyewitness testimonies
For assassinations that haven't
Begun happening. But rapt
The veiling attachment,
Froth of words, the disaster
Never brings.
Lies upon lies upon lies
Until we both stood up.
Written to Doc's Song (End Credit Reprise) by Rostam Batmanglij - The East (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack) and "It's You" by Robert Schwartzman from Palo Alto (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)
Rice Krispie, you read the message wrong. You were supposed to avoid Logan Square.
