Darling,
in the event of a zombie apocalypse,
I’m gonna marry you.
I know, that romantic testimonial
isn’t quite the matrimonial proposition
you were expecting,
but I’m projecting a lovely future for us!

You see, when the dead break free,
I’ll come save you.
I’ll be your knight in shining Kevlar,
your cranium-crushing crusader,
and safe in our barricaded bungalow,
we’ll match moans for groans
with the shambling horde outside.

We’ll make love ’til death do we part,
or at least til we start
to run out of supplies,
and if we get in a pinch,
I’ve got a surprise:
see, I’ll paralyze them with poetry,
’cause if there’s anything
a zombie understands, it’s desire.

Meanwhile,
you lay down suppressive fire
and we’ll take out as many as we can.
If in the end we are overrun,
I’ll let them take me
so you can get away.

They can have my brain–
it’s my heart that beats for you.

I'm tired
Tired of feeling this way
Tired of fighting
Of trying
Of lying
That I'm fine

I want to sleep
For days
But dreams haunt me
Daunting

I'm treading water
Drowning, drowsy
In a vast pool
Of memories
Experiences
Emotions
Suppressive weights
Heavier than the
Sleep
That draws my eyelids
To a close

Fighting to let myself
Drift away
Fighting to keep
My eyes open

But I'm too
****
*Tired

How do you perceive the world
A world as dark and happy,
Suppressive and full of opportunity,
As another headache or painkiller,
Or as much of a heartbreak
Or heart-filler?

Where does one draw the line
In the figurative dirt of
Trust or mistrust,
Of isolation and lust?

How have you been conditioned to view this world?
Through two windows to a compact machine
Cogs and gears turning, calculating...
What am I seeing?

Ganjgal, September 8, 2009


They had a job to do that day
in the Valley of Ganjgal.
Afghani and Americans
walked into a metal hail.
An ambush had been laid for them
as they approached the town
Every light was darkened
Taliban held the high ground.

One squad was pinned
Behind a wall and
was taking Casualties.
The gunny Sergeant
for sure was dead
and perhaps the other three.
Corporal Meyer on the radio
called for suppressive fire
but was denied because brass feared
to rouse the natives ire.

With no air support available
and the situation looking grim
Corporal Meyer told his Sergeant  
They should take the Humvee in.
They drove into the ambush zone
time and time again
Engaging with the enemy
and rescuing their friends.



Corporal Meyer killed one enemy
at close range with his M-4
He then engaged with a machine gun
and killed or wounded several more.

When air support, at last, arrived
and held the foe at bay
Corporal Meyer entered the killing zone
to take the dead away.
He came across four bodies
that had been stripped of guns and gear
All four had been shot at close range
the  postmortems make that clear..
On his broad shoulders he bore a friend
Who’d paid the price of war.
He ran between the bullets
until he had retrieved all four.
Disregarding his own safety
and heedless of his Shrapnel wound
He displayed great personal bravery
without which our cause is doomed.

Corporal Meyer wears an honor now
that few men living bear
The Medal of Honor on his chest
for conspicuous Gallantry there.
He will tell you he’s no hero.
He just had a job to do.
A proud United States Marine
to their motto ever true.

Born to death, left in dread, not knowing if I'm alive or dead. Born with no bed to call my home, I was too busy struggling for my life in the ER room. That was just my beginnings, death wanted me bad, but don't worry I make it through it knowing life won't all be full of dread. Grew up with parents not being together, getting bullied at school, sometimes I just wish I got buried in some tomb. I used to look at life so positively, but with so much crap coming at me, Doctor Phil could easily write my own biography. Then junior high came, and that was a whole other thing entirely.  Man, I wish kids could just get home schooled those years, because then I may not have needed that psychiatry. Then finally high school came and prepared to my past experiences was so heavenly. Before school was like the hunger games, survival of the fittest was my only option. Sometimes I still find myself in survival mode, I'm scared that if I say do something wrong the past will strike back at me. So I just stay quiet like a monk, but **** me off I turn into the hulk or some volcano eruption. Wondering why life ******* me over, why people have to be cruel, finding out it doesn't get better as I get older, just wanting to finally be me in this supposed " land of the free." What I’ve realized is; that this country is a monotonous hellhole, home of people who pretend to be nice, because as it's all about our image. This is reality so I’ll just pretend that everything is right with the world, not looking at all the problems and crap not who I am supposed to be; which is me? I'm sorry that ain't me, I’m just so fricken tired of being herded by society like I'm some moronic sheep; conquered by the white privileged. Well baa baa black, brown, yellow, and red sheep have you any wool? No sir no sir it was all taken by the white sheep, why don't you ask them for some? Reality is the whites control everything no one can touch them without paying with your life, hope this truth open the eyes of those who are non-visual because it’s time to stop acting like ignorant fools. We need true equality, we need true freedom, we need change otherwise we stay oblivious to facts which is dumb, which we need to stay away from! This world is full off suppressive segregation, everything must be taken, ignore the horrifying facts of the past but rather let’s look towards the future. Well I would like to but the fact is we can’t because there will always be racism and violence, it’s has been put into our genetic tract since the beginning of time. Since we ate that forbidden fruit, since Kane killed his brother Abel, ******* to this barbaric nature to engrain it’s disease into our brains like a tumor. I guess it’s just human nature to be horrible killers looking for anything that can fill us for some sort of enjoyment like some kind of disturbing nursery rhyme.

The unimpeachable glasses are fogging,
as they tentatively ignore the premonition,
while ignoring the suppressive partition,
that defends themselves from submission.

The eyes detect,
with unreasonable rest,
the hazy, shadowy terrain,
that prevents them from pain.

If the mugginess stays,
and the heart embellishes the fade,
then the glasses maintain,
their authoritarian reign.

The root of all evil, set to victimize the people
Keep us separate but equal, justification is lethal
But the system isn’t see through, it’s affecting you and me too
And now we  must redo everything that made us feeble.

Now we must all give in to this suppressive prison
This world in which we live in has been filled with premonition
Oppose our own volition, our morals and our cognition
Listen to the vision of new accepted fiscal rhetorician

You claim to be a Christian with no moral intuition
But I don’t envision a Christian to think with his commission
But I may be incorrect and I may need to reflect
Nevertheless, it’s a greedy world what can you expect?

Is the sky falling
just because she's
soaked to the skin,
half-naked,
and with pixie smile
knows so little
of the affect
her bloom has,
here in the open fields?

Her evanescent day,
caught between
the suppressive cloud
of a mother's
mindful shaming,
and what it should
rightfully be,
an ingénue
let play in the rain.

My name is intangible, its recited or sung, a verse from old folk poetry or the beautiful Quran. I’m remembered when a Zajjalin sings, words of poetry, rhythms and feelings. I'm the makeup of things whether suppressive or freeing and the concrete emotions that a poet leaves ringing.

My name is the voices of change in Lebanon’s civil war. A wounded country where the people is its soul. I was the hope and granddaughter my grandfather wished to call. I carry the name proudly waiting for Lebanon’s sun to return home.

The blood moon beckons a bitter hue
Rising above the frothy winter dew.
In the night- luminated a single room.
My only solace in the suppressive city gloom.

(Staring in the nocturnal vacuity:
A grey hazy mirror passing in my soul.)

Blades of silver steel
Puncture my mind, with
Seething desire I long to wield.

Withholding the bitter sorrow
I take the blade in hand,
To cleanse me from the ‘morrow.

Slitting of flesh ensue,
The ****** begins.
Skinning to the bone to make me anew.

From head to toe,
Cut to shreds.
No one will feel the pleasure I know.

Squirting from my anatomy.
The warm gush of fluid.
The spermatozoa-blood spewing over me.

For the final incision-
Off with my ****** “member.”
Pressure relieved.

****** achieved.

                                                  THE END…

Asking, "where's my mind?" wears my mind, you see?
fallacy's alive and I permit it.
Idly rightfully, stand I, abiding
Its suppressive whim I cannot forfeit.

Shall I ponder what scurries so discreet?
Maybe rather it exists to roam Rome.
If I squander, it wonders Italy.
And I, in Portland, await it, alone.

Upon this reluctant reuniting
its lost sense of home, anxious though welcomed.
My mind lost itself, separated me.
I am without it again, so I sit.

I snicker, shamed and amused by my claim:
"My mind?" it lacks the restraint necessary to belong in such a way.

I creep upon the shadows that do nothing but follow.
I lift above the ground like the angels, I have found.

A failure to results but a successor in the making, I'm battling through the crowd but somehow I'm still smiling and faking.

Hope, I still carry
Faith, I am not in a hurry
Courage, I am still building
Wisdom, I am still learning

To all that life has to offer, I am just accepting...

Pain; self doubt
Drain; a sad pout
Broken; Fixing myself up
Unspoken; I am learning to let it all out

Selfish and sinful, stubborn and hard to fulfil,
but through the cracks within me, I am trying to focus where I want to be.

Dark and depressive, lost and suppressive, misunderstood and aggressive...

HELP... I call out
Fix me... I shout
Make me fly... I just want to let it out

But unfortunately I fear...
I fear what people may say
I fear things will not go my way
I fear the darkest day
I fear my emotions won't go away.

I have not treated my ghost well
I have kept my  deep secrets hidden
and this left me feeling dark and dull.

I chose Satan because he gave me power, then I saw the light, now it is my god that I pray to every hour.

Invincibility and visibility is what I craved
The feeling made me well behaved
But deep within me I am not well
Sick; strange, and hiding like a shell.

But I need to break the shell...

One eye open , in the pill box , tantamount to tugging on Mothers robe , trigging yet needing recognition , laying down suppressive fire for the entire division , marching through enemy lines , planes at treetop level make the ground shudder , Rottweiler at my bed won't leave me be , shadows growing larger , R.E.M. sleep . Both eyes open , panning into the tree line , five pills to choke down , a long days travel , trying to make it  until Noon , meet the combat medic , pick up fresh chemical to cure a soldiers blues .. Across the water a heron monitors the surface , hours on end without movement , stoic and proud or frozen with fear just like me !

Explosive wrath called into play
The odor of decomposition on a hot ,
bitter day
The rancor and confusion of 'Broken Arrow'
Mercurial Lieutenants ordering suppressive
fire on false objectives , exposing location
in a counter-offensive
Alpha , Niner , One call for fire
Copy-get small on the wire

Made it, it's another day.

Despite the crippling notions,
Suppressive rain drenching my head,
Detail-oriented accounts of you,
Hours locked in a bed.

Another day.

Food degrading to ash,
Your voice inside my cortex,
Gutting emotions,
A dull machete
"Just give me what's next"

It's another day

Hauntings, a ghostly other lover,
Begging to sleep between,
Because to me there is no other,

"Don't forget me" was said

Thank God, another day

Pleading up a universe,
Disintegrate all agony,
If only for a minute, "let me sleep"

"Let me believe I can feel again in my dreams"

A morrow makes a heart mend, right?

So far, another day
The next day compromise.

Born to death, left in dread, not knowing if I'm alive or dead. Born with no bed to call my home, I was too busy struggling for my life in the ER room. That was just my beginnings, death wanted me bad, but don't worry I make it through it knowing life won't all be full of dread. Grew up with parents not being together, getting bullied at school, sometimes I just wish I got buried in some tomb. I used to look at life so positively, but with so much **** coming at me, Doctor Phil could easily write my own biography. Then junior high came, and that was a whole other thing entirely.  Man,I wish kids could just get home schooled those years, because then I may have not needed to get that psychiatry.  Then finally high school came and prepared to my past experiences was so heavenly. Before school was like the hunger games, survival of the fittest was my only option. Sometimes I still find myself in survival mode, I'm scared that if I say do something wrong the past will strike back at me. So I just stay quiet like a monk, but **** me off I turn into the hulk or some volcano eruption. Wondering why life ******* me over, why people have to be cruel, finding out it doesn't get better as I get older, just wanting to finally be me in this supposed " land of the free." What i've realized is; that this country is a monotonous *****, home of people who pretend to be nice, because as we all know it's all about our **** image. This is reality so i'll just pretend that everything is right with the world, not looking at all the problems and crap, and not be who I am supposed to be; which is being me? I'm sorry that ain't me, I'm  just so ******* tired of being herded by society like I'm some ******* sheep; conquered by the white privileged. Well baa baa black, brown,yellow, and red sheep have you any wool? No sir no sir it was all taken by the white sheep, why don't you ask them for some? Reality is the whites control everything no one can touch them without paying with your life, hope this truth open the eyes of those who are non-visual because it’s time to stop acting like ignorant fools. We need true equality, we need true freedom, we need change otherwise we stay oblivious to facts which is dumb, which we need to stay away from! This world is full off suppressive segregation, everything must be taken, ignore the horrifying facts of the past but rather let’s look towards the future. Well I would like to but the fact is we can’t because there will always be racism and violence, it’s has been put into our genetic tract since the beginning of time. Since we ate that forbidden fruit, since Kane killed his brother Abel, ******* to this barbaric nature to engrain it’s disease into our brains like a tumor. I guess it’s just human nature to be horrible killers looking for anything that can fill us for some sort of enjoyment like some kind of disturbing nursery rhyme

The sooty frequent of the machinations of the Skotádi or Darkness were systematized with Vernarth genuflecting before the Mashiach, poking himself in the Verses that are of draconian dipsomania and Manumission “Here is that spirit that haunts us by showing itself the smooth eruv of the Kathartírio; right here leaving their feet and heads that have been given to the Lord ..., here I have been anointed by him to also bring conversion and merciful news together with my Lord Apostle Saint John who has guarded me, who has removed the bandages from my hallucinated eyes, being trans mortal among the captives and galley slaves that with their chains have broken your tympanum, my beloved Mashiach, like a whale of whales stranded by your bleeding saliva! What greater power is over me bringing my mother's hand that inhibits my fever of trans mortality, and that makes a heartbeat even after my soul is not essential! Messiah, I am the one who has been in all the concentration camps, I have seen hands torn by the fierceness of human felines, and by the noble pacts that open with their stilettos to the Christians who follow your word ..., I know they will dwell in the afflicted wasteland where the nations rule each other with their gold fangs, and with silver earrings ..., dwelling in the opacity of the burned-out farmhouses in their afflicted famine, only waiting for thousands of transgenerational generations, from which the verse of Liberation will make them exempt from satisfying your appetite, even in the angelus or in the sticky wheat that is forced from the jaws of the Skotádi and the Katarthírio, where forgiveness will be to see and eat what it will cost us a lifetime to pay off what we could not condescend from the burning Mezzo acquire!

In this way it will be channeled under your majestic cloudscape and the surrendered sea of the sacraments in all those who did not make it at birth ..., and neither did they dazzle the depressed sower who will be redeemed from Zion. Everything is an undeclared transgression, but if he lashes twice in the gall of what he is capable of turning away from Suffering, and from the prediction that he declares himself to be pardoned free from the Truth that hides from his woes in adversity, and that continues to struggle under thousands of years for the Kathartírio ..., What is our Purgation that is more than an organism of Superior Light, sleeping and surreptitious in the calluses of those who contaminate their sacred walk for thousands of years through the desert ..., only arranged for those who will find it! indivisibly stigmatized! Do not ****** the Reception Vessel from me, because it is in it are the souls of my foundations that encrypt and underline more than my untied hands in the entire enunciation of its declaration and only in its inverted nomenclature of language. I can only say through my feet, that they are yours my Lord ..., alone and little that nothing coexists ..., it will be more than what I will not know how to say with all my respect, so what has to transform me will channel me into dissimilarities and before my dreams as a pairing of burning crematories on the extended flares that will not end.

Patmia is with her face and derision unmasked, noticing the abysmal restlessness of the alelí, with its imperfect aggravated treachery in what is incapable of persevering when the twilight becomes suppressive in the master key of the burnished ethón, whose most diluted timid will be only the roar of his turpentines that cry out for the Cristus that crystallizes, and dematerializes in chromatic colors that are unpainted from the splendid Sun translucent in the water of the Jordan. What difference will there be in the othones or screens that support their contrasts, if one day there will even be a lack of water for the baptismal of Ein Karem. I will be from a deranged domain where floodgates of hydrous fullness will not open, that fills real nature with the desires to supply what passion does from the top over the Jordan and this in the passion of Keter, as adoration and idolatry of incorporeal Water. Everything pleads about harmonies that are distressed, not holding the rod that measures runaway time in front of the inexorable Thuellai. And what is the knotty thinking, mute in its purposes that are of the sacred lexicon? But my Beloved Confréres let us bind the flavor of the elder root, and of its old painful as beards in the feather that will become feathery springs where its flow will germinate with the compromised berry of dew and vine, totally scattered in the frontal green of the Hexagonal Baptistery of the Shepherds in Ein Karem. Pluri-springs and their eyebrows, they will guttural squalls in the ovaries of their pericarp, but not from the same elderberry that will sprout in eternal life from its irradiated berries, where nothing and nobody will omit its brownish petiole and its late Zoroaster that carries it in his chins as ornaments in the merciful compassionate, before the punishing weak and his bite for everything in whom he does not resent him!

I will cross out the lines of my hands and I will return to where the Shemesh blowing from the Shofar ..., fitting only in my unleashed thoughts ..., with sneers of derision on the plain of a barrel and its berries to save us. In the world, they will fall like wicked towards others who will blame them! I do not know if the vice of hiding traumatizes me behind the tropes that ride dark or carry me over their darkness, and my very image that sacrifices it, or will it be of those who get fed up knowing that there was nothing from me to save ..., only the transformation that is made of the Jordan where they will never again be seen in the river ...! That he dozed next to Peter…, undulating like a cobra and feeling himself say white sin? Nothing is a substitute in the reception that never stops opening floodgates, perhaps expanding in the executive axes of the Apokálypsis, or of a Behina Dalet receiving multisectoral in what is not its equivalent ..., nor in the hatching of its identical disparate, and that nothing and no one will know by any Written or Wisdom rule to be transformed from his oral to his back! A verse will run shaken from the relaxed worldliness, compressing itself with graceful touches in the charities of the Shofar, and of the long sounds of perverted anguish without wavering in what is temporarily suspended, either in clauses overturned before the eyes of anyone, and those who are cowed from the fears that they never knew how to overcome from their own.

The Deus Himation bubbles, surpassing the warmth of what is and is not surnamed in what is a sweaty proverb, even in the solitude of all the patrimonial that has weakened from its plinton, grafting itself on the directive designs that work slavishly to their own compromise. laborious and healthy maternal, complacent of the sap that goes to the following of the mischievous sigueríos or Lost Seas of Capernaum, only washing in the heel where it will never be healed. Nothing more generous than to pursue indulgences in rivers that end of those that are pacified even more at night, when they still seem to flow towards the Shamaim or Heaven of imperishable prayer, as if they were crashing from some runaway and sticky wagons at dawn, but yes grim in the lump of a champion where nothing has ever to be compromised in the glosses of his worst injury!

I do not open easily to love.

But when I do, I become obsessive.
Fantasies run wild without being suppressive. Don't fret, it is not possessive. I'm still not sure if loves a curse or a blessing.

Desire to want every single part of them, kiss every inch of skin, to wake up every cell in their being. To get lost in the depths, until we lose our breath. I want to devour the other whole, as they devour me whole.

Productive days
Of improv humor
Lately I’m
A real late bloomer
But a tumor
Lurks beneath
Metastasizing
In the deep
The sunset looming
Out of reach
No one to share
Its fading heat
And I fear never
Will return
Shall once more lend her ear
To learn
The myriad
Aways of me
Intricacies
Deceptively
Expressed
In this
Suppressive state
Oasis
‘Bout to immolate
At any moment
But despair
Still constitutes
The everywhere
I go,

No golden fools
Aglow,
Nor soulless ghouls
Sold out for show
Quite artfully enough
Pretense
My shattered psyche
Imp laments,
As I laugh last
At their expense
Though not aghast
At class
Distinction
Just as natural
As extinction
More surprised to find
The kind
Of people
Who see dollar signs  
Can look like me, or you, or us
Just must be someone
I could trust
Like confidantes
No strings attached
Contracted obligation
Scratched

Can I expect greater focus and stand derailed?
Our train for thoughts, not landed, until reticent reveals-
We formed and turned, tooted and found,
a direct place seemingly law

  the regard of wisdom fathoms
  tell tale signs not butter tripes
Is not time that similar insolence?
The gathered people shall renege as justice foresaw.

Glee in the place of prayer who can place their thoughts so well
Lest we'd be walking avenues
of light
irrespective of the towne's name.

Proclamations the virtue to share more solitude of thoughts
Which of itself is as original train... it  went off the tracks

Couple of minutes cinders free floating, auburn, yet, suppressive.
A fluorescent orange forms not an error with deliverance but how did it get there to  begin with

Perhaps a breadth of light did bless the soul

For I know not the real use - free to return to the basis wherewithal  systemary thought processes deserve what follows as they say shall conclude when only of pain

Thats not merry, rejoice, all reality follows the litany that you could have a special fate
an answered prayer for that real worth ,
a chamber of secrets if you will have waited to be
eased, soothed & ascribe deliverance's ambiance

Oh'! Brothers and sisters winning by means
of the visions lasted of years

While once... and never any thoughts that embellished conscience samples- what little sinicisms in these holiday prayers...
there are more armistices than need to
welcome reform or speak of ideals  
ode  and memento mori  old friends and I
Tales tall  have that we rationaly are physically well

But to evince what creations life's victories meant to mean
there are arrivals of whips lead by cornucopias  foods
and flowing silver hair broaches results of supreme
consecutive alarms that soon announce

Heavenly illustrations yet the sensations
eternal holds, a glorious femme

Whence seasons divided, follies... and arrives the memory of lyrics

Ascended path, gifts auspicious, send our togetherness and
make this our Christmas blessed and thanks so gracious

This word is a weapon of two sides
A passion can make you soar to the highest layer of atmosphere until the sky could be your boundary .


Other types of passion could be lethal at which you wake up in the morning wonder how many incredible deeds you should accomplish to put down your inner fire of excitement and recharge all the batteries starving for success.

You refuse to live normally and fall as a prey and constant slave for the routine.
You decide to free yourself from suppressive drugs that could sabotage all what you have been struggling to build.
At the end, the only weapon you posses is your passion to the thing you been pursuing.

Yes, you guessed, it's an Irish
speciality, came from a time
of great shortages, flour mainly,
so, potatoes were an additional
ingredient to supplement meagre
rationing during the suppressive
years inflicted by white neighbours.

Apricot kernels is the cure for cancer? Au contraire! Apricot kernels abound in hydrocyanic acid! Hydrocyanic acid in its industrial form is prussic acid (a druggist prudently refused to sell prussic acid to Lizzy Borden); prussic acid as a fumigation agent against typhus it was commercially marketed as Zyklon B and used in concentration camps throughout Europe during the second world war. Incidentally, apricot kernels cure sickle cell anemia; apricot kernels moderate blood pressure. AND polystyrene, commercially marketed as Styrofoam, is known as ****** & ****** B when sprayed on the hapless citizens of Vietnam, Laos, Thailand, Japan, Iraq, Afghanistan  & Cambodia.

✪✪✪ ALL Facebook cancer sites are pity parties. People are beat down by a disease that afflicted 3% of the American citizenry in A.D. 1900 to a projected 50% by year 2020. A fact that few people know: a cancer patient who dies from an opportunistic infection during immunologically-suppressive chemico-/radio-/cryo-ablative "therapies" is statistically a cancer-treatment success story. Currently cardiovascular disease & cancer alternate as #1 & #2 in regards to leading causes of death. Unsurprisingly, folks who succumb to heart attacks, aneurysms & strokes had cancer while those who died of cancer were cardiac patients taking prescribed blood thinners & statins. It's a mad dash to the grave between these 2 diseases of malnutrition.

And women, for me, it was only in the air,
not on the air. Well! 1 and communication
were found, but for different distances, to
play different combinations of songs, which
is the rest of the army, and although, I can
be ready with animals, not to complete
the newborn, and to sleep 1, and told them,
why, evil love is charity, though, there is no
one that he obtains freedom from the poet's
rock. Bob's head is a woman. So strong
and powerful ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
••••• •••••• ear • • • •• •• great •••••••••••••••••
••••••••••••••••••••••••• • • Italy, •••• ••••••••••••••
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••••••••••••••••••
••••••••••••••• • •••••••••••••••••• ••••••••••••• •••
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• ••• •••••••••••••••
• •••••••••••••••••••••••••••• ••••• ••• •••••••••••
•••••••••••••••••••••••••• ••••• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
••••••••••••••••••• A black woman ••• •••
Good love will win the life of the white city
of mother's death in the United States yearly season,
a red Star music girl of light, night magical
Magda lingua Johnny's skin in the grip of water
for the Late day, America's ******, Africa's green,
Russian, Europe's eyes and the Asia-American
tribe of the province's best prostitutes,
water body for Southern Italy. The grass of the English colony,
and the color of George's blood
is the work of the flame of the stars
of the great power of blood after a long change,
head of warm gold, the friendship of the son
of the Germanicus, Greek ch The dog
is actually the middle yellow,
the blue sky, Christian Thomas in the sunlight of the future,
keeping the calm leg of the side probe,
lighting amino acids with the glory of the three heavens,
the earth, the Russian prostitutes not exemplified
by the sea are out of the house The morning
of the moon's French presence was lost in the morning,
the presence of a small part of Kenya was born,
his wife, the game on July, the one Rock,
a poet, queen of the spirit of the beholders,
was the distance from a woman's book in the years of life,
the numbers of gardens, the child's shadow, the gold,
its ******* and the truth of women,
Jesus. The image of the art of the situation died,
the sacred changes to drinking dogs,
Robert the former human's high Brazilian legal history
is the power of hell's friends Favorite Radio son
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