type on the knick knack writing machine that spouts lies and
half truths to all around - forgetting words are literally literal literature and we bemoan the moaning that just went through both of our lungs
we dance around the subject of the thing that is or is not and we spread our legs continually - cocks out to the nearest electrified fence so we ride the lightning and we ride the flesh-pole
everything begins to make the least amount of absurd sense and we look at sunspots and discuss the closeness of farness
but when the inevitable question is finally asked by the asker, there turns out to be no answer and this is not what's inevitable
fist fucking frolicking nightmare of a potentiality; sloppy hotness of a wet american summer - let's dance on the beach and forget that we know each other
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