selfish impositions deck my halls with sounds of folly
it's a foie gras Christmas in Bloomington Illinois....
the pacific reaches me much further faster
its like a dozen of your mermaids descended upon me all around someone's funeral
that I couldn't attend
NOW THERE'S NOTHING LEFT BUT CHERRY TREES.
Looking into my own skies I find a birth and am lost for what to call myself as all things come to ludicrous misapprehensions
when thoughts fight like trials amongst utter stalemated extensions of love.
THE DOT IS HERE.
She swerved to the side and asked me two questions:
- DO YOU SMOKE?
and
- I 'LL BET YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN MY FAVORITE FAGGOT TO BURN WITH
~r.