Baby changing bugaboo, crawling to the top of the highest cave bed, pick-a-licking boysenberries and pretending they are Aztec heads. Which witch will warrant wealth? Stoned killers secretly kayaking, singing Kristofferson, and blending an enigma of fanciful calla lilies, rummaging into past offices, demise and replicate, cross-over to the cross-hairs, pontificate the pageantry and buy them popsicles afterwards.
My mellow cousin's mildew, elongating like moss, shelves the corner of every imaginary shuffleboard diagram, and my weaker attempts to garner atrophy are still pleasing.
Happenstance brings us closer to residence and god-like angles.
Strangling the hope and breathing into it Fibonacci patterns.
I'll glue the idols together and decorate their chests with a laughable garland.
Perhaps them we'll win a visitor.
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Mmm, the taste of your words makes my right leg shake. Sometimes I have to sample your juices multiple times before the montage quenches my hankering, but once the peach is sucked dry, the seed is swiftly placed under the earth for more, or sometimes, I'll stick it up Katherine's ass because she's still getting used to the idea of things going up there.
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